infinite-riches

[infinite-riches]

I'm so excited to finally share the art I did for the COD Big Bang.

I got to work with the wonderful @infinite-riches who wrote a wonderful hurt/comfort story with Ghost & Soap. Make sure you go & check it out on they're AO3: Infinite_Riches

[infinite-riches]

Chest Pains

Summary: His gaze snapped to those amber eyes he loved so dearly. He could see the questioning look on Simon’s face and it caused something in him to crack.

“Do ye no trust me, Simon?”

“What?”

“I asked if ye don’t trust me.”

Or: Ghost isn't used to being cared for. Soap isn't used to being shut out. When things don't quite go to plan the boys' relationship is put to the test.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 10,015

Warnings: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Miscommunication, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Blood, Injury, Minor Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, stab wounds, wound care, Medical Inaccuracies

A/N: Since this is a multi-part piece, I will only be posting the first chapter here. The remaining chapters can be found on Ao3 which is linked below. This work was created as part of the COD Big Bang 2025 together with my amazing art partner c.rogers_art on Instagram and @crogers-artist here on Tumblr! AO3 Link (if you prefer): Chest Pains

“Johnny,” Ghost cut his gaze back up the hill behind him. He couldn't see his sergeant where he was lying in the underbrush, but the subtle glint of the scope told him he had spotted him dead on.

“Hmmm?” the younger man hummed, watching through his scope as Ghost crouched down to scratch the chin of a curious stray.

“What rank are all cats in the army?” He waited a beat before continuing. “Corpurrrrrral…”

Soap groaned, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his partner.

“No good?” Ghost straightened up, watching as the cat darted into a nearby alley.

“Honestly, sir? Worse than the last.”

“You wound me, Sergeant…”

“Aye, but ye like it.”

“You’d be the one to know…” Ghost huffed, scanning up and down the deserted street. The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows. Desolate buildings with busted-out windows were all that remained of the once lively, remote mountain town.

“Course I do, ye can’t resist me Ghostie…”

Ghost grunted, feeling the warmth of blush spreading up his neck and across his cheeks. This thing between him and Soap was still so new. The sergeant had taken to Ghost immediately with seemingly no caution for the rumors and legends surrounding him.

Comfortable silence settled between the two men as Ghost made his way further into the town. Intel suggested it had become a waystation of sorts, close to the border and sheltered by the mountains. A few weeks of surveillance confirmed the movement of several enemy troops in and out of the area but gave no information as to what was being left behind or taken.

“Coming up on yer left, Ghost.” Sending Ghost in solo for this left a pit in Soap’s stomach. It wasn’t for lack of faith in his Lieutenant- much the opposite in fact. He knew Ghost could handle this, but he also knew Ghost was used to working alone. Their time in Las Almas had proved that loud and clear- left Soap feeling off-kilter, having to come to terms with the fact that Ghost had left him behind when he headed for the church.

The weeks and months after, both on and off mission, gave way to something between them. Soap watched, with much joy, as, little by little, Ghost let Soap in. He still had his moments when he’d pull back into himself or shut Soap off. And he understood why. He knew, even before Ghost broke down and told him about his first trip to Mexico, that Ghost wasn’t used to having someone to cover his six. He had felt drawn to his lieutenant, in a way he hadn't ever felt drawn to anyone before. Knowing about Ghost’s past, knowing Ghost, only drew him in closer, but it was a balancing act. He had to be careful not to smother man, he had learned quickly that keeping too close a watch left his Lieutenant feeling caged rather than protected.

“Once yer through that door, you’ll be on yer own, Simon. Cannae see a thing from here.”

“Roger that, Sergeant.”

Soap watched through his scope as Ghost slowly twisted the door handle, slipping through the door, and disappearing into the waiting blackness.

Seconds ticked by as Soap waited, scope trained on the last place he saw Ghost, breath caught in his chest, “...Ghost?”

No response.

“LT?” and then after another moment, “Simon?”

“‘M here Johnny.” The radio crackled to life, static overtaking Ghost’s voice like a thick fog.

“Dinnae do that, ye big bastard!”

Ghost huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he scanned the dim warehouse floor. Amber afternoon light filtered in through what remained of the window panes, illuminating dust that he kicked up with every step. Almost every surface, save for a few door handles and light switches, was coated with the stuff. Boot prints trailed through the dust, along with a few drag marks further confirming the intel that this place had been a hub of some sort.

Missions like this, ‘milk runs’ Price liked to call them, always put Ghost on edge. The word easy attached to anything meant men get sloppy, get quick, get reckless. Even when it was just him and Soap, he didn’t like the word ‘easy.’

“Anything, sir?”

“Negative, ground floor is empty. Headin’ upstairs, pretty sure that’s their drop location.”

“Aye, be careful. Pretty comfy up here, dinnae want to have to come chasin’ after yer ass just cause you couldn’t handle a milk run.”

The old metal staircase creaked under his weight, step after step, almost comically loud in the silence of the warehouse. The hallway was deserted, papers littered the floor, doors were half open, and a few chairs were scattered down the length, disappearing into the darkness. It seemed that little time was spent here by anyone stopping through- just enough to pick up whatever it was they were after and move on. The first room was empty save for a few overturned filing cabinets.

“You like chasin’ after my ass, MacTavish.”

Soap couldn’t help the groan that slipped from his lips at Ghost’s words. He could feel the blush race up his neck like a forest fire, so hot it felt like the tips of his ears were burning. “Ye got me there, sir…”

“Got you just how I like yo-” Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as he turned on his heel. He just made out the silhouette of an enemy operator as he heard the crack of the butt of his gun against his helmet sending stars dancing across his vision. He swung his arm around, already raising his rifle, as he stumbled back, his other hand searching for something to catch himself on. A shot rang out, painfully loud, in the small space as he hit the ground.

“-imon?!”

Blinking the stars away, he was greeted with the sight of an enemy operator, cradling their shoulder, blood flowing between their fingers. His eyes darted between his rifle, which had slipped from his grasp in the commotion, and the person before him, whose dominant arm was seemingly out of commission, their own gun lying abandoned on the floor.

With a lunge, the enemy was on top of him, slashing at him with a knife. The person was smaller but still substantial, their weight crushing down on his hips.

Bucking his hips, Ghost sent the enemy tumbling to the floor next to him as scrambled to his feet. Ghost reached for his belt, hand firmly around the grip of his pistol but it wasn’t coming free from the holster.

“Damn it…” he spat, swapping to grab for one of his knives instead, only to be met with the feeling of fire blooming in his chest.

Looking down, he spotted the knife, buried halfway into his pec, the nylon of his tac-vest strap fraying where the blade had nicked it. “Bastard.”

He reached for a blade of his own, forcing the steel into the exposed portion of the soldier’s stomach, just below the end of his tac vest.

The enemy stumbled back, hands clutching the handle of the blade, blood trickling from the wound. With a more forceful tug, Ghost freed his pistol from the holster, trying to steady his hands as his vision swam. With a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger, watching as the bullet connected with his target before they crumpled to the ground, eyes open and unseeing.

As the ringing in his ears faded, an angry barrage of Scottish words came more into focus.

“Simon! Answer me right bloody now, or I’m coming down there, and so help me Jesus if I find ye de-”

“Down, Sergeant.” Ghost grunted, leaning back against the wall.

The steel of the blade caught the light, a forceful reminder of the next problem Ghost had to deal with.

“I’m no fucking dog, Ghost! Ye cannae just tell me to sit and stay like I’m yer bitch! What the bloody hell happened?”

“Seems whoever was ‘ere last left someone behind. I handled it.”

“Handled it?” Soap continued to berate him as he let out a shaky breath, fingers closing around the handle of the blade.

In one quick motion, the blade was discarded on the floor, replaced with the gauze Ghost kept tucked in his vest. He choked back a grunt, pushing the fabric as far into the wound as possible before moving to collect his rifle.

“Sergeant!” Ghost barked, taking a moment to check his rifle and collect himself. “Shut it, will ya?”

The line went silent as Ghost pushed onwards, checking the next abandoned room.

“Probably left the poor bloke here to alert them if someone comes poking around. Got a feelin’ we don’t got long before they come ‘round-”

“Ghost-”

“Wonderin’ why that sod isn’t calling in-”

“Are you alri-”

“Be here with exfil in 20-”

“Christ, Simon! Fucking answer me!”

“‘M fuckin’ fine, Johnny! Need you to get your head screwed on straight and focus on the fuckin’ mission!” His heart was nearly pounding out of his chest as he talked, a kind of adrenaline rush that didn’t seem to have any desire to slow.

“Focus on the fucking mission…” Soap grumbled down the line, switching channels to call for exfil.

Silence hung heavy between them even after Soap switched back to the main channel.

It wasn’t often that Ghost got like this, especially not when it was just the two of them working together. It left Soap with his hackles raised; Ghost was predictable when you knew him, and this behavior was breaking the norm.

Room after room was vacant, left in the same state of disrepair- upturned filing cabinets accompanied by dusty tables and chairs, playing cards, and cigarette butts.

One room held a small, worn cot and a backpack, assumedly that of the fresh corpse down the hall. Seems the unfortunate former occupant wasn’t meant to stay long, just as their recon suggested- no one ever stayed here long.

His chest ached as he made his way down the corridor. Knife wounds were never fun, but this one came with sharp pain, blooming from his chest with every breath he took.

A thick steel briefcase was tucked under a desk in the last room he came to, silver catching the last dusty rays of light.

“Better be worth all this,” Ghost huffed, unceremoniously snatching the case from the floor and heading for the stairs. His vision swam as he made his way down the stairs, reaching out occasionally to steady himself with the railing. He took deeper and deeper breaths as he made the trek out, the air felt thicker than when he had first come in, and it was making it difficult to fill his lungs.

He followed his own set of dusty footprints back to the door he came in at, the blue light of dusk from under the door now a beacon in the silent warehouse.

“Comin’ out, Johnny, don’t shoot me.”

“Wouldnae dream of it, sir.” His words felt clipped, short in a way Soap rarely was, and never directed his way- unless he didn’t get his morning coffee.

He pushed the door open, the first chill of autumn blowing into the space and racing up his spine. The buildings all seemed blue in the light, window panes holding onto the last sliver of orange from the horizon as he made his way down the alley he had entered from.

The soft whop-whop-whop of the helicopter blades signaled that their ride was here as he pushed onwards towards the edge of the town, where the main road was wide and flat enough for the helo.

As he cleared the corner of the last building, he spotted Soap, back to the helo as it touched down behind him, framed by the vibrant orange sun of dusk.

His pace had slowed, head spinning as he put one foot in front of the next. His breathing had quickened considerably, despite the easy work the hike out should have been.

As he got closer he could see how Soap’s head was cocked to the side, seemingly trying to puzzle something out as he stared him down. “All good, sir?”

“Peachy, Johnny,” he grumbled.

Soap waited until he was by his side to make a move for the helo, climbing in first and extending his hand to Ghost. The Brit took it, grunting at the pain that shot out from his pec.

“Si?” Soap’s eyes raked over every square inch of Ghost, zeroing in on the frayed strap of his vest, and the crimson that had spread across the navy material of his jacket, just above his heart.

“‘M fine, Soap,” he snapped, passing the briefcase off to one of the men on the helo before collapsing into a vacant seat.

“Ye don’t look fine!” Soap hissed, bullying his way into the space between the older man’s legs.

“Fuck off-” Ghost coughed out, head dropping back against the metal of the helo with a thunk. Stars spotted his vision as pain bloomed from the back of his head. He tried to blink the stars away, shaking his head as he did so but he was only hit with another wave of dizziness.

“No, yer not bloody fine, are ye!” Soap growled, reaching up to unclip one of the shoulder buckles on Ghost’s vest. The Brit caught his wrist in a vice-like hold, Soap hissing at the pain that flared from his wrist.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’, Sergeant?”

“Yer obviously injured, ye idjit! ‘M no gonna let ye sit here and bleed to death!”

“You think I can’t handle myself, Soap?” There was fire in Ghost’s eyes despite the way he was nearly panting now, breathing short and quick, almost gasping, as he released his grip on Soap’s wrist with a small shove.

“The fuck is wrong with ye, Si?” Hurt swelled in Soap’s chest, paired with sharp, biting anger at the way Ghost was trying to keep him so far away. “Ye no trust me? Dinnae think I can take care of ye? Is that it?”

“I’m fine, John! Don’t know why you think I can’t take care of myself!” He huffed, anger simmering beneath his skin as Soap tried to push into his space again while he reached beneath his shirt. He discarded the thoroughly saturated gauze from before, stuffing fresh gauze in his place, gritting his teeth through the pain.

“Cause right now, ye bloody aren’t! Yer sitting here, bleeding all over the fucking helo, refusing any help cause yer too fucking scared to let me in, Simon!”

“Don’t-” Ghost took a sharp breath, his other hand coming up to clutch at his chest as he tried for another deep breath.

“Don’t you dare-” he dropped his hand from beneath his shirt, reaching for the edge of the metal bench to stabilize himself as he took another gasping breath.

“Simon?!” Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as Soap watched the way Ghost gasped and choked for air, hand on his chest quickly stained crimson as pink, frothy blood bubbled from under his shirt.

“Medic!” He screamed out as Ghost pitched forward, on a collision path with the floor. Soap’s knees screamed in protest as they collided with the metal beneath him, hands rushing out to stop Ghost’s downward trajectory. He quickly turned Ghost onto his back, hands shakily undoing the clips of his vest.

Watery baby blues were the last thing Ghost saw before he slipped under.

[infinite-riches]

I Was Good Until I Turned Thirteen

Summary: At twenty-five I found god. And guilt. He was tall, broad, well-built. Blonde hair and blonde lashes that framed whiskey-colored eyes so perfectly. He was my dream. And my nightmare. Crushing guilt crashed over me. Unnatural. Unholy. Disgusting. Despicable.

Or: Soap struggles with his religion

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 666

Warnings: Catholic guilt, implied/referenced homophobia, implied/referenced abuse, implied/referenced oral sex, internalized homophobia

A/N: This piece pulls heavily from my experience with religion and the thoughts I struggled with growing out of religion and into my queerness.

To anyone who relates please know you are seen and accepted and loved. Ancient religious texts or backward ideologies do not define you.

You can find me on twitter @Kit_Marlowe1564 if you need someone to talk to.

All my love <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I Was Good Until I Turned Thirteen

I was good until I turned thirteen. Then, something started to change. I am not sure exactly when. Or why. 

It must have just been the growth that comes with change. 

The good book didn’t mean as much to me anymore. I had questions I never had before. Questions I never would have dared ask before. Questions I am sure damned my thirteen-year-old self to hell. 

Fourteen showed me the depths of human cruelty. I didn’t think we were supposed to pray against our fellow man. At night I cried and tried to soothe my soul. If they could be so cruel to strangers, what would they do to me? Would they cast stones as their ancestors did? Would they cast me out?

I think at fifteen I stopped trying to save myself from hell. It's not that I didn’t care, but it seemed that an unchangeable part of me would always be damned. And who am I to fight an unstoppable event? I am not burdened as Sisyphus is. I do not have to bear punishment every day for the simple act of existing. I can choose not to suffer. 

By sixteen I was scared of the joy and freedom I felt without a faceless god breathing down my neck. This freedom terrified me. This is when I started to find people like me. We lived quietly, taking care of our own, helping each other through the pain. If people knew what I had learned of myself… I never let that thought finish. 

Seventeen faced me with a choice. I chose to run. Legal name signed on crisp white paper. A new home address assigned to me. Pulled far apart from my family. Like Velcro, pulling until I came completely untethered from those I had always known. 

Eighteen. I was on my own. No one knew me here. For the first time, I could breathe. 

At nineteen I stumbled headfirst into a mistake. Gnashing teeth and strong grips. Harsh words and desperation. I was searching for a god where I could never find one. God would not wear down my spirit so. At least… not my god. My god would accept me. Love me. 

Twenty felt like a mistake. Kneeling felt sacrilegious. Receiving them upon my tongue like communion felt like betrayal. There were not enough Hail Marys to save my soul. 

Twenty-one through twenty-four was life. Or at least what I thought life should be. There always seemed to be a shadow looming over me. Disgusted glances. Hate-filled words. Maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe god was coming back to claim what once was his. 

At twenty-five I found god. And guilt. He was tall, broad, well-built. Blonde hair and blonde lashes that framed whiskey-colored eyes so perfectly. He was my dream. And my nightmare. Crushing guilt crashed over me. Unnatural. Unholy. Disgusting. Despicable. 

Johnny.

At twenty-six I let myself be free. I turned to this faceless specter torturing me with empty threats and banished it. My god loved Kentucky bourbon and awful jokes. His touch was like fire and his words a cooling balm to my burning soul. He worshiped me. 

I gladly fell to my knees in worship of him. Took him upon my tongue as the blessing it was. I had no need for Hail Marys, he saved my soul with every breath. 

Johnny.

So beautiful.

Lover.

My dove.

Mine. 

And I worshipped him.

Simon.

So handsome. 

Darling.

My love.

Mine. 

And he knows. The little ‘RC’ still adorns my tags. The cross my mother gave me still hangs heavy around my neck- a noose I can not bear to take off.

And when the guilt threatens to overtake me? To drown me? He is there, pulling me from the waves. Telling me that there is no shame here, where it is safe, between us. 

And one day, the flames will not bother me at all. But for now, I know my god will be there to tend the burns. 

[infinite-riches]

Chest Compressions

Summary: He could see Gaz and Price’s boots come into view, Price barking down the comms for an immediate medevac but, as it stood now, there was nothing they could do except watch Ghost either save or lose Soap.

30 chest compressions and still nothing.

Or: Soap's life is in Ghost's hands

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1373

Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of Injuries, Emotional angst/comfort, Medical Inaccuracies, CPR

A/N: This one-shot was inspired by this tweet by @mik_d0 on twitter

It feels great to get to write again. Things are still hectic for me but I hope to return to a more regular writing/posting schedule soon!

As always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): Chest Compressions

He heard him struggling a second too late. He pulled the trigger a second too late. Watched his Johnny’s body drop in time with the now-dead enemy operator. 

“Price, Johnny’s down.” His voice echoed in his head, ears ringing as Price’s voice faded away, static taking over. 

The rain made the ground slick under his boots as he ran across the asphalt expanse. It was a hard-driving rain, good for cover, bad for anything else. 

He fell to his knees at Soap’s side. There was blood. So much blood. But none of that mattered because he wasn’t breathing. 

“Fuck!” He desperately tried to find a pulse, pulling his mask off at the same time. “C’mon Johnny!”

Still, as much as he prayed, there was no pulse. He splayed his hand across Soap’s chest, interlacing the fingers of his second hand with the first before beginning his count, pumping hard and fast, praying he wouldn’t crack a rib. 

“C’mon!” He was gasping at the effort, already worn down from the long mission and the accompanying firefight but an adrenaline rush he had never experienced before was taking over. 

He could see Gaz and Price’s boots come into view, Price barking down the comms for an immediate medevac but, as it stood now, there was nothing they could do except watch Ghost either save or lose Soap. 

30 chest compressions and still nothing. 

“Please…” he tilted Soap’s head back with shaking hands. Tears were flooding his lash line, hot streaks rushing down his rain-cooled skin. 

He had spent many a sleepless night dreaming about the first time he would kiss Soap. This was not how it was supposed to go. 

He took a steadying breath before pinching Soap’s nose shut and leaning down, slotting their lips together and trying to breathe for him. 

First breath. 

Nothing. 

Second breath. 

Nothing. 

“Don’t leave me, Johnny…” 

“Medevac is 20 minutes out, Ghost…” 

20 minutes. Soap most likely wouldn’t make it past 10 minutes of CPR let alone 20.

With a violent shake of his head he cleared the thought from his mind, beginning another round of chest compressions. 

He finally let himself truly look at Soap as he counted out compressions. His neck was already showing signs of deep bruising, the ghostly outlines of two hands making themselves apparent. There were cuts across the sun-kissed skin of his face and neck and a deep gash on his lower abdomen. 

“Gaz!” He nodded towards the wound and Gaz rushed into action as he zeroed back in on Soap. 

“Please, baby… please come back to me…” He couldn't lose him now. He hadn’t even told Johnny that he loved him. 

28… 29… 30… still nothing. 

One rescue breath. 

His lips were getting colder. 

Another rescue breath. 

Silence. 

“Fucking hell, Johnny. Please breathe, please. I can’t fucking do this without you.”

Another round of compressions. 

Another set of rescue breaths. 

Silence. 

More chest compressions.

More rescue breaths.

More silence. 

Again.

Nothing.

Another round.

No pulse.

“Ghost-”

“Fuck off!” He already knew what Price was going to say. It had almost been five minutes and Soap hadn’t so much as flinched. It didn’t matter.

Another round of compressions.

24… 25… 2- 

He felt a sickening crack, the undeniable feeling meaning he just cracked a rib. Soap was dead beneath him and all he was doing was mangling his corpse. 

He bit the rising bile back and continued on. 

26… 27… 28…

His muscles were starting to ache and scream for relief. 

29… 30… 

This time his lips felt like ice. 

A sharp gasp of air was like music to his ears as Soap jerked beneath him. 

“Johnny!” Ghost held Soap’s face in his hands, forehead pressed together as he watched Soap trying to put all the missing pieces together, chest spasming as he greedily sucked in air. 

“Simon?” Soap’s voice was small and raspy, sharp fear tinging the sound of his name.  

“I’m here, Johnny, I’m right here. I’m so sorry. So sorry, love. Please forgive me…” Ghost’s head was spinning. Worry, guilt, fear, relief, and hurt all crashing over him as his shoulders shook. 

“Simon… it hurts…” Soap was grasping at his chest and throat as if that would somehow ease the pain Ghost had caused. 

“I know, I’m so sorry. Medical will be here soon.” Ghost pulled soap into his lap, holding his head steady as he watched the Scot’s chest steadily rise and fall. 

He didn’t leave Soap’s side until a short, fiery RAMC captain shoved him into the waiting room, her sharp stare enough to keep him seated in the plastic chair. 

It was a few hours before she stepped back into the waiting room. “I’m assuming you’re the Ghost he keeps asking about?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He stood from the uncomfortable plastic, towering over the woman.

“C’mon on then,” She nodded her head down the hall, leading the way.

She pushed open the door, holding it open for Ghost. “Sergeant MacTavish, I found that Ghost you were asking for.” She looked between the two for a moment before turning to leave. “Press the button if you need anything.”

The sight of Soap laid up in the hospital bed was like an arrow to the heart. His neck was a molted mix of purples, blues, and reds in the rough shape of two hands. The whites of his eyes were overtaken with blood and his lips were swollen. 

“Si-”

“John-”

They both let out a laugh, Soap’s quickly turning into a rough cough. Ghost rushed forward, passing Soap the glass of water that had been left by his bedside. 

“Careful, Johnny.” He helped him sit up, holding the cup steady as Soap’s hand shook. 

“Thank you, Simon.” His voice was hoarse and Soap swallowed painfully after speaking. For a moment Ghost just held his face, taking in every beautiful feature he had come to love since meeting the Scot.

“I’m so sorry, Johnny. I… I should’ve been there, I should’ve been better for you. And… and now…” He trailed off, tears threatening to spill as he grasped Soap’s hand. 

Soap slid his hand from Ghost’s, moving it to cup the side of Ghost’s face. “You… saved me, Simon.” Each word was agonizing, each breath was excruciating and it showed.

“Don’t make it worse, love…” Ghost’s eyes were filled with worry, constantly scanning over Soap, as if waiting for something else to go wrong. 

“Shut up and listen,” Soap huffed, his hold on Ghost’s face tightening just a little, Ghost’s eyes snapping to his. 

“Shoulda told you sooner, Simon and I’m sorry I didn’t…” he cleared his throat, taking a few obviously painful breaths but Ghost waited, would wait an eternity for that man. “I love you, Simon.”

“I love you, Johnny, so so much.” Ghost couldn’t hold back his tears any longer, opting to bury his face in Soap’s neck as the Scot slipped a hand under his balaclava, gentle fingers playing with still-damp curls. 

“Shh… everything is okay, mo ghràdh… I’m not going anywhere… but…” Ghost leaned back just enough to catch his cheeky smile, an ounce of worry invading his mind. “You owe me a proper first kiss.”

“Everything for you, Johnny. Everything.” Ghost pushed himself up the bed, mask quickly pushed up and off his face before cupping the Scot’s face in his hands, mirroring the way he tilted his head back just a few hours earlier. Their lips slotted together like puzzle pieces. It was like everything clicked into place at that moment. A fated match finally come to fruition. Tears mixed on flushed cheeks, slipping over swollen lips. ‘I love you’ was mumbled over and over again as they kissed until Soap’s heart monitor started to beep at a dangerous pace.

“Okay, Johnny, relax…” Ghost guided him back against the pillow, beginning to stand when a strong hand caught his wrist. 

“Stay. Please.” Those ocean eyes were filled with hope but also fear as if Ghost leaving meant he would never see him again. 

“Always for you, darling.” He helped Soap slide over on the small bed before climbing up beside him, pulling him close to his side, and kissing his head. “Now rest for me, I’ll be here when you wake. I promise.”

[infinite-riches]

wedding bells 💒

[infinite-riches]

The Brightest Blue Is You

Summary: But the most blue was his eyes.

Eyes that didn’t recognize him anymore. And a smile that was hidden away behind a mask.

Or: A soulmate AU where relationship milestones "unlock" things related to your fated partner (I'll add more details for this concept in the author's notes to prevent spoiling things). Ghost is face to face with the man who is supposed to be his soulmate but everything is still ~off~.

(This piece is based off images from the MW3 Season 4 trailer)

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1329

Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Emotional angst/comfort

A/N: AU Concept: Hitting milestones w/your soulmate "unlocks" certain things. You can't see the color of their eyes (it appears grey until you see your soulmate) at all- if their eyes are green then the grass is grey until you find that person, etc. The base notes of their scent are subdued until your first hug/cuddle. You can’t taste your soulmate’s favorite sweet until your first kiss (basing it on Cranachan [a traditional Scottish dessert of cream and fresh raspberries, bolstered by Scottish oats and whisky] for this piece).

-----

So… it's been a while. I hope you enjoyed this- honestly, I'm a little unsure about it. In a perfect world, I'd want it to be longer but my brain just isn't letting me get there.

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): The Brightest Blue Is You

His legs gave out as the rubber sole of his assailant’s boot made contact with the back of his knee. Pain shot up through his body as he made contact with the street. His head was already swimming, warm blood seeping into the dark fabric of his mask, knuckles aching from the punches he had landed. His gun was long gone, lost to the fight some time ago.

The bombed-out city was a blur of twisted metal and busted concrete, orange flames reaching high into the deep blue night sky, stars just starting to shine. In any other situation, Soap would’ve commented about how beautiful the sky was. 

He could hear the clink of buckles and gear as the man stood behind him. The metal felt cold as ice against the back of his head, and the sound of the gun cocking sent a chill down his spine, even despite the heat of his love behind him. 

“Save you a seat, LT.”

Blue.

The color nearly knocked Ghost off his feet. It was the only color he hadn’t been able to see, until now. 

That one look had changed his entire life. Something he was sure he didn’t have. Something people like him didn’t get to have, was boarding a helicopter, the promise to save him a seat still fresh on his tongue. His soulmate. 

Blue. 

It was everywhere and he had never known. His shirt was blue. The night sky was blue. But the most blue was his eyes. 

Eyes that didn’t recognize him anymore. And a smile that was hidden away behind a mask. 

“Soap-” 

“Shut it.” He sounded wrong. This wasn’t his Soap. This wasn’t the man he had fought alongside for years. Not the man he would take a bullet for. His voice was harsh, his familiar Scottish accent buried away or maybe beaten out of him.

The unforgiving metal dug further into the back of his head, pushing him farther forward on his knees, the crumbling asphalt below unrelenting. “Now, where’s your captain?”

He looked like his Soap, but his Soap wouldn’t willingly work for Makarov. Not the Soap that had tried to put a bullet in Makarov’s brain. “Soap-”

The pistol came down hard against his temple, a sickening crack ringing out into the night.

The blood pouring from his arm finally slowed, Ghost making quick work of dressing the handiwork of a shadow. 

He was flagging, eyes fluttering shut even as he fought the urge to sleep. Ghost could see how far the man had pushed himself to make it out alive. So Ghost gave in, pulling the man close, tucking his head below his chin, trying to memorize every detail of the moment. 

Pine and fresh rain. 

It was subtle. And comforting. And perfectly him. 

He had never understood what people meant when they said it smelt like rain. Now it made perfect sense and he never wanted to go without again, never wanted to go back to that subdued version he lived with for so long.

“Did it for you, LT.” He wasn’t his usual chatty self, voice soft and laced with exhaustion as he buried himself in Ghost’s side.

“Did what, Johnny?” The Scot was fading fast, the modicum of security provided by Alejandro’s safehouse enough to lure the man to sleep. 

“Fought for you. Lived for you…” The last words came out a whisper, barely there but enough to leave Ghost reeling. 

Ghost blinked the memory away, fighting a quiet sort of sobbing that required every ounce of strength to maintain any semblance of composure. He pulled Ghost’s mask off and tossed it to the side, revealing tears streaking through dust and dirt and blood creeping down his pale skin. 

“I’ve been patient with you, Lieutenant. But now my patience has run short and I want answers.” Calloused fingers pulled at messy blond locks.

Like that night after Chicago.

He had never known what raspberries tasted like before that night. Before they tumbled into a tiny hotel room, one bed between the both of them and no complaints to be found. 

A few awkward moments passed until Ghost zeroed in on it- a cut right at his temple, blood still staining his skin. He fell back on his training, gently cleaning the spot with a warm rag, checking Soap over even though the medics had cleared him. He kept fussing over that cut until Soap pulled his wrist away. 

“Simon-”

“Almost lost you, Johnny. You were there, on that ledge…”

“Simon, look at me.” Ghost all but snapped to attention, ready to burn down the world if Soap asked. 

Warm hands slid across pale skin, up his neck, nudging the fabric of the mask higher and higher until it rested on the bridge of his nose. Pine filled his lungs as Soap leaned closer, warm breath dusting over waiting lips.

“I will never leave you.” The flavor was bright and sharp on his tongue, matching how he kissed him. So much passion and need but also, sweet. A perfect mix Ghost had never had before him. 

The blue that stared back at him now seemed dull. All blue has since that day. Now, he hated blue.

The barrel of the gun was against his forehead now. The silhouette of his lover towered over him as a flash lit up the night sky behind him, illuminating the rain that had begun to fall. 

If he closed his eyes he could pretend he was back at his flat, the taste of raspberries, cream, and whiskey lingering on his lips. But he couldn’t.

Whatever Makarov had done had stolen that from him. Gone was the infectious smile and bright laugh. Gone was the man he loved. 

“You’ve got five seconds, Lieutenant.” His finger shifted on the trigger and Ghost’s heart was shredding itself at the sight. “5… 4… 3-”

In an instant Ghost had both hands around his arm, pushing the gun into the skin of his forehead. The movement made Soap jerk, unsteady and surprised by the sudden action. 

Tears raced down his face as he held his gaze, grip strong, daring the man the pull the trigger. This wasn’t the man he loved. Not anymore. That man was gone and that left Ghost with nothing to live for. 

“I haven’t lived since I held your body in my arms.” His voice cracked. “Just kill me, please, Johnny. There is no living without you.”

Thunder shook the ground as lightning lit up the sky and he could see it. Could see the moment his Johnny realized what he was doing. Blue had never seemed so bright.

Soap dropped the pistol like it had burned his skin, and clutched the offending hand to his chest. The sound of metal hitting asphalt rang in Ghost’s ears as Soap fell to his knees, sobbing and curling in on himself. 

“I’m sorry- so sorry, Simon.” Over and over again, like a mantra, like it was the only thing grounding him. 

“Johnny-” Ghost was instantly reaching for the man, pulling his head into his chest just like in Las Almas. He could smell the rain again. 

His hands were shaking as he worked at the clasp of the mask, unlocking the vile thing and tossing it to the side. 

“‘M here, love. You’re safe.” They were a tangle of limbs and tears, drenched in rain and suddenly aching for the small shared space of their flat. 

“I didn’t- didn’t want to. Don’t know what he did to me-”

“It's alright, Johnny. I’ve got you.” His lips brushed against the star-shaped scar at Soap’s temple as if he could kiss it away. As if he could make up for all the pain that came after he left him in that tunnel.

“You… I-”

“Johnny, I will never leave you.” Ghost grabbed Soap’s face, pressing their lips together. It was a mix of tears and rain and raspberries. Raspberries had never tasted sweeter than in that moment. 

[infinite-riches]

Master List of Soulmate AUs

Edit: Updated 25/October/2019

[ALL THE LINKS HERE] <- Easier reblogging

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [More TBA] (Full list below, these are just the posts the lists are from) 

Gosh I hope there’s no repeats… Let me know if there are, I’ll edit it. Some of these AUs are probably in an improper category, sorry.

—–START OF LIST—–

–Something Written/Drawn–

-Each others’ names on their wrist/palm/etc

-Names on both wrist, one soulmate other enemy, can’t tell which one is which

-Each other’s initials on their wrist/palm/etc

-Each others’ first words to one another

-Each others’ last words (to one another)

-Same marking on each other’s skin

- Each soulmate has one half of a quote that is important to their relationship.

-A timer for when they shall first meet

-A timer for when the other dies

-Timer counting up and stops when you’ll meet your soulmate

-Timer starts counting the moment you meet your soulmate

-Writing that says how old your soulmate will be when you meet

- Everyone is born with a unique number only they and their soulmates have. 

-Writing that says what your soulmate is most passionate about

-Your soulmate’s feelings about you is written on your body

-Your soulmates first impression/thoughts about you is written on your body

-Written on your palm is what your soulmate is thinking

- Each year imprinted on your arm, whispered in a dream, sent in a mail or whatever, is a hint to who/where is your soulmate. 

- Each day on your arm is a particular event your soulmate will face today. (Examples: Promotion, family death, new pet, meeting soulmate…)

-Every night you receive a message about a random sentence your soulmate has said that day. 

-You have a watch that says the timezone your soulmate is in

-The first drawing you see from your soulmate is tattoo-ed on your skin

-Meter of how dangerous your soulmate is

-Meter of how in danger your soulmate is

- A touch from your soulmate will leave an imprint there (like a different coloured area on your skin, or a symbol, or name)

- Ink marks (similar to tattoos) are on your body. When your soulmate is in the vicinity, it’ll slowly move, as if reaching out. When you two touch, the tattoos will connect with each other.

-Counter (maybe on your palm) that depicts how many times you pass your soulmate

-Timer of how much time you spent with your soulmate

-Timer of how much time you don’t spend with your soulmate (maybe only in effect after you meet them)

-You only get the first letter of your soulmate’s name

- The first (or last) words your soulmate speaks every day is written on your arm.

- The first sentence you say to your soulmate is written on yourself (after you say it, maybe).  

- The most important thing your soulmate says to you is written on you.

- The most important thing your soulmate says (to you?) that day will be written on you.

- The most frequent thing your soulmate says to you is written on you.

- There’s a symbol (or written words) of what weather your soulmate is experiencing right now (or going to experience later in the day).

- Your soulmate’s birthday is written on your arm.

- The last thing you were thinking about before meeting your soulmate is written on them.

-  Your thoughts about your soulmate or having a soulmate is written on their body. Over time the words accumulate, some growing smaller or fading, but never disappear.

-  Amount of time you’re with your soulmate written on you. Could be a permanent number or a number that accumulates over time.

-  Written on you is a badly worded description of how you’ll meet your soulmate (Ex. Reality: Meet in coffee shop spill drink- - > Description: “You’ll meet in a place of high energy and it’ll be hot”)

-  Soulmate marks are only visible after meeting and/or touching.

-  Every time your soulmate lies, their words are written on you.

-  All the nicknames your soulmate is called by is written on you.

-  Whenever someone describes your soulmate, those words appear in a special journal.

–Changed Vision–

-See colour for the first time when you meet, fades away when they die

-Will only see shades of your soulmate’s eye colour until you meet

-Can only see colour to places your soulmate’s been/touched

- Human beings themselves and everything they touch is monochrome, until they meet their soulmate. Then everything they touch is in colour (except for human beings who aren’t your soulmate).

-Everyone is technically “blind”. You can only see what your soulmate sees (until you meet them maybe)

-  Each genuine emotion your soulmate expresses to you adds colour to your world (Ex: yellow for happiness, blue for sorrow, red for passion, etc).

–Different Abilities–

-See/hear/speak/etc for the first time when you meet 

-Being next to soulmate heals injuries

- You stop aging at a certain age, until you meet your soulmate and grow old together.

- Everyone has super powers, but when soulmates are together their powers are nullified by each other.

- Everyone has weak powers, but when soulmates are together their powers are amplified

-Have the same super power

-Soulmates have opposite powers from each other (fire and water, invisibility and high noticeability, etc)

- Teleport to each others side

- Everyone has the ability to manipulate the force of wind to an extent. The wind blows in the direction of where their soulmate is. (Maybe the wind is stronger depending on your bond)

- Everyone has powers, and when you meet your soul mate you swap powers. (Probably have to hang out with them to get pointers on your new powers)

- You can cast one portal anywhere and so does your soulmate. Your portal leads to your soulmate’s portal and vice versa.

–Sharing–

-Get the same emotions as your soulmate does (They’re sad, you’re suddenly sad) 

- Get the same injuries as your soulmate does

-When you get sick, so does your soulmate

-Soulmates share the same handwriting

-Soulmates share the same fingerprints

-You share your knowledge with your soulmate

-You share your temperature with your soulmate

- Songs sung by your soulmate is stuck in your head. 

- Whatever music that is stuck in your soulmate’s head is stuck in yours too.

-There’s a radio in everyone’s heads that they share with their soulmates, the two(?) of you can change the tunes

-Unique song imprinted in your mind that only you and your soulmate knows

-Have the same tics at the same time (verbal tics, drumming fingers, humming, etc)

-Cellphones between soulmates are in the same condition (cracked screens are in the same places)

-If you’re having a good/bad day, your soulmate will have the same amount of good/bad day. (Or alternatively, the opposite)

- There’s a small screen only visible to you that allows you to see what your soulmate is seeing (think kind of like those video games with splits screens)

- Soulmates share the same afterlife   

-Have the same heart beat

-Heartbeat morse code for soulmates name

-Soulmate’s heart beat on your wrist

-Everyone has life points/years left in their life, and people can give their soulmates their own life points/years if they’re lacking

-Whenever you lose an item (like a sock), it ends up in your soulmates’ possession somehow

-Everyone has a different sky that is shared with their soulmate (except clouds/sun/moon stay in the same position for everybody, so weather is not affected). Everyone has the ability to draw on the sky, making splash of colours or little notes for only them and their soulmate to see.

- Everyone receives a special accessory (hat, watch, necklace, bracelet, etc) that is exactly alike with their soulmate. Many people, when they meet their soulmate, like to swap theirs with the other.

- Taste the things your soulmate is eating/drinking.

- You share talents with your soulmate.

- Everything you record is sent to your soulmate.

- Everybody has some type of tablet thing that’s a shared space you and your soulmate can draw on.

- Wake up and sleep at the same time.

-  Special pens where if both soulmates are holding their special pen, they can both write/draw the same thing. (Like sharing one pen in different locations.)

-  People have a tendency to experience whatever emotions their soulmate have pent up inside them.

-  Once you hit a certain age, or once a year, you swap bodies with your soulmate.

-  Same as above, except with your soulmate’s closest friend/enemy.

-  Soulmates can swap bodies with each other any time.

-  When someone touches your soulmate, you can feel it mirrored on your skin.

-  Whatever your soulmate eats, you get a craving for it.

- You’re forced to sing whatever song your soulmate is singing, or get into a perfect duet.

–Communication–

- Telepathic link with your soulmate.

-Write something on your own skin, appears on the other’s skin as well

-Meet soulmate in dreams every night (with the ability to interact)

-Can meet soulmate any time in a shared mind space

-Before you die, you get to send one last message to your soulmate

-You can send one item to your soulmate every year (or whenever)

-You have this limited stack of sticky notes. Write whatever you want on it, and that note would magically appear somewhere in your soulmate’s line of sight during that day. 

- Soulmates can communicate with each other in a language only they understand.

- When concentrating, you can write out your soulmate’s thoughts.

–Changed Physical Features–

-Your eyes are your soulmate’s hair colour, changes when they dye it

-Everyone has heterochromia, one eye is your natural colour the other is your soulmate’s natural colour. Once you meet all eyes return to natural colour. 

-Your hair colour is your soulmate’s sexuality flag (remember that there can be platonic soulmates, and that sometimes you can be soulmates with someone but they’re not soulmates with you)

- Once you meet your soulmate, you grow wings like an angel. You gain one new feather each time something special happens between you two. When your soulmate dies, you lose all your feathers and can no longer fly.

–Restrictions–

- It is impossible to lie to your destined soulmate.

- Under a curse until you meet your soulmate 

- They have to say each other’s name to figure out they’re soulmates.

- Only your soulmate can kill you.

-The only voice in the world you can/can’t hear is your soulmate’s

-If you don’t find your soulmate by your #th birthday, you die

-Everyone wears a mask. You get to finally take it off when you meet the one with your identical mask, your soulmate.

-You’re stuck in a room filled with clones (with maybe slight differences) of your soulmate. You need to kill all except your soulmate or else you won’t get out/be together.

- On top of everybody’s head is the name of their soulmate. You can’t see your own. If you tell somebody their soulmate’s name, something unfortunate/death will happen to them/yourself/a soulmate.

-Your soulmate is invisible to you until you figure out a certain trigger.

- If anyone except for your soulmate says your name, you die

- Opposite of the above, if your soulmate says your name you die

-The only words you can say is your soulmates name until you meet them.

-You can’t harm your soulmate

-You can only harm your soulmate

-You have a limited number of words, and you can only recharge when you’re with your soulmate (when you use up your word count, you die)

-  Everyone has a special pen that can only have the writing erased by their soulmate.

-  Every human has a limited number of words they can say before turning mute, but to their soulmate that limit is gone and they can speak endlessly to them.

-  Opposite of above, you have a limited number of words you can say to your soulmate before turning mute (only to them?)

–Experiences/Actions–

- When you meet your soulmate, time stops for a month for everyone besides you two.

-For a month, you and your soulmates have to go through different soulmate AUs each day (ooh you can use my lists for ideas *cough cough*)

-Each year at a certain age, soulmates are paired together into some sort of battle royal thing, best OTP wins

-At the corner of your eye, you can see a blurry vision of whatever your soulmate is doing (like sitting down drinking coffee in your living room, even though they’re doing this in another area)

-Soulmates can switch lives whenever they feel like it

-When you meet your soulmate for the first time, you get a flashback/relive their entire lives

-Similar to above, except you get glimpses of their future

-Before you die, you flash through your soulmate’s entire life (what they were doing before they met you, if they’ve ever lied to you, etc

-Hidden in dreams, but never interacting, is your soulmate

-A certain time frame began to loop, and the only way for it to stop is to find your soulmate

- You will keep looping your life until you meet your soulmate.

- Legend says that if you fold 1000 paper (Cranes? Planes? Rabbits? Anything really) You can meet your soulmate.

- Everyday, you have the chance to spin a wheel that will determine an event your soul mate will face. (Some people may avoid it for bad luck, others may spin it for the slim chance of your soulmate getting a cure for their illness or something)

-There’s this special video game where your partner is your soulmate. You only get to meet if the two of you finish the game.

-At the age of sixteen, everyone goes into another world for two years, hanging out with their soulmate. Time is warped to make sure the two of you are sixteen in this world. When the two years are up, you’re sent back into the real world, with fractured memories of what happened. These foggy memories make it hard to find them again. (Numbers can be changed.) 

- The first time you touch your soulmate, you’re forced to relive their best day and/or worst day of their lives (past or future).

- Human beings die on their 25th birthday (or any number). To prevent this, they have to meet their soulmate. But only one of them can survive.

- If you haven’t met your soulmate but have been in the same vicinity of each other (like passing each other on a street or in the same building), that day will keep repeating until you find each other.

- Once you meet your soulmate you’re literally stuck to each other for the rest of the day.

-  After death, you become your soulmate’s guardian angel (may require going back in time, or not).

-  Every night, dream about what your soulmate is going to experience the next day.

-  Something fills up before meeting your soulmate, like a heart ink tattoo getting coloured in or a bottle filling up with liquid/sand/origami stars/etc. The moment it is full is the moment you meet your soulmate.

–Compasses–

- A red string tied around your pinky is connected to your soulmate’s pinky (when the two of you are in a certain distance)

- You can only see the string of fate when you close your eyes.

-Temperature gets hotter the nearer they are, colder when they are further away

-Each person has a spirit animal that can lead you to your soulmate

-If you send off a paper airplane, it shall reach (or move in the direction of) your soulmate.

- Counter of how many footsteps away you are from your soulmate

- Your soulmate leaves coloured footprints only visible to you

- Throwing something you love on the full moon will land on your soul mate

-You can feel a tug from wherever your soulmate is. These may either be automatic, or have stronger tugs whenever your soulmate is in distress.

- Each soulmate pair has a constellation, and the constellation that you perceive to be the brightest is pointing towards where your soulmate is.

-  Progress bar of how close you are to your soulmate.

- Herding goose that herds people to their soulmates. (No I did not make that one up and it has been written more than once apparently, even before the Untitled Goose Game.)

–Hints–

-You get a photograph of your soulmate and vice versa, somehow (Could be yearly, could be at a certain age, could be a photo of when you first met, etc)

-The voice in your head (example: your conscious) is your soulmate’s voice (by that I meant that they have the same voice, not that’s it’s your soulmate’s personality in your head– y’know, take it as you will)

- Every year, you receive a puzzle piece. The whole picture is your soulmate’s name/appearance/location/etc.

-Mysterious letter detailing to one person when they’ll meet, and another letter detailing where they’ll meet to their soulmate, but not both (Person A gets when they’ll meet, Person B gets where they’ll meet)

-Letter about details of how the meeting between soulmates go (example: “you get pushed into a lake by a guy in a duck suit and your soulmate helps you”, etc)

-Bubbles gives you a blurry glimpse into your soulmate’s world (visions of possessions, friends, family, laughter, crying, etc)

- Everyone holds a locket with their soulmate’s picture, but it can only open when certain conditions are met

- Instead of removing flower petals for “loves me, loves me not” the flower petals dictate whether you’ll meet in this lifetime (“meet me, meet me not”) and it’s forever accurate.

- Everyone has memories of their soulmate in their past life.

- Everyone receives a picture of their soulmate (at a certain age) taken the year they met. 

- There’s a point system in life. You can purchase clues as to who your soulmate is for 50 (or any number) points.

- You get to meet the parents of your children’s soulmates.

- You dream of the place of where you’ll meet your soulmate.

- The first picture you and your soulmate are in will be sent to you on a birthday (which can be tricky if it was, for example, a class photo. Or a newspaper picture of a crowd).

- Counter of how many times you’ve passed by or seen your soulmate.

-  One soulmate owns a lock and the other owns the key to that lock.

–Your Soulmate–

-If you and your soulmate possess the same item, it’ll glow

-Everyone has a special pen/marker/drawing utensil. Using it, the lines are thicker when their soulmates feel strong emotions, thinner when they’re feeling weak, run out of ink when they die, etc.

-There’s this special block of clay that represents your soulmate. It has a special colour and changes forms depending on how your soulmate is feeling.

- There’s an object that changes colour depending on what mood your soulmate is in

-Reflecting in the mirrors is the appearance of your soulmate

-Plant that represents the soulmate

-Receive piece of cloth with soulmate’s scent

-You get a notification whenever your soulmate is asleep or awake (like a real life friends list)

-Everyone gets a list of their soulmate’ worst qualities

-Everyone is born knowing their soulmate’s (future) biggest secret

-List detailing the differences between you and your soulmate

- You can sense when your soulmate is in distress

-Whenever you have a question, your soul mate has the answer.

-Once you’re an adult, you get kicked out of the house until you find your soulmate.

-Everyone gets little books of what people think about their soulmate (but never said out loud)

- Everyone has a device to check if the other person is their soulmate (like a light that’s red when it’s not and green when it is). It gets brighter when they’re full of life, dimmer when they get sick, and out of batteries when they’re dead.

- Literal sparks fly when you’re near your soulmate, soothing for the two of you but static shock for others.

- Your level of talent at a hobby is determined by how close you are with your soulmate.

- The outline of your shadow is your soulmate.

- You meet your soulmate the day after the worst event of your life.

- Everyone somehow owns a creature who possesses the same (general) personality as your soulmate.

- You know every number about your soulmate (Phone number, number of times they said hello, social insurance number, number of days left, etc…)

—–END OF LIST—–

Enjoy! You can use any of these without permission (but if you do tell me you’ll use one I’ll be giddy that you read this and it’ll make my day, I swear). Happy writing! :D

[infinite-riches]

The Collapse

Summary: He did his best to remember. Gaz had been right behind him when the call came through from Price for backup. Soap let Gaz go, insisting he could clear the, reportedly, empty building on his own.

Everything was going fine until Soap entered the office on the second floor. The door had been attached to a trigger.

Or: Soap gets caught in the blast and things only go downhill from there.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1622

Warnings: MCD, Mild mentions of blood

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by this prompt from a member of the CoD babygirls server, much love to them!! <3

Also, I cried writing this. :')

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): The Collapse

5. Oh fuck.

4. He has to run.

3. A straight shot down the hallway.

2. The stairs would be his best bet.

1. Almost there.

0. 

Soap struggled to gain his bearings. 

He remembered hearing the beeping. Then running. Then an explosion but there was still a gap in his memories.

For a moment everything was silent and still before his body processed everything. 

Blinding white-hot pain tore through his body, lighting up every nerve. He screamed so loud it made his ears ring even more.

He could feel something warm sliding down the side of his face. Blood. Confirmed to be an uncomfortably deep gash when his fingers landed where skin should have been and only met more blood. 

His throat felt raw, caked thick with dust that made each breath agony. Calling for help felt like swallowing shards of glass. 

He tried to pull himself into a sitting position but was left immobile, a broken slab of concrete laid across his lower body, at least 10 meters long and 3 meters wide. He did his best to take stock of his situation. There was a deep gash on his head and he almost positively had a concussion from the blast. His heart sank as he tried to assess his legs. As much as he tried, they wouldn’t move. Not an inch.

Fear rose in his chest, tendrils of panic wrapping around his throat as it became harder and harder to breathe. 

“-oap? How copy?” Price’s voice brought him back to the present. He fumbled about, adrenaline only going so far as to hold back the fear and anxiety. Eventually, his fingers made contact with his mic.

“Price, I–” he choked back a sob as he finally let himself take full stock of his situation.

“John? What is it, son?” Soap could hear the panic in his Captain’s voice and tried not to focus on the guilt he felt because of it.

“I… you… I won’t make it to exfil-” The words had barely left his mouth when Ghost cut in.

“Johnny? What happened? Give me your location.” Soap bit down on his lip, trying to hold back the wounded cry trying to force itself from his throat.

“No need, LT.” He tried to keep his tone light. He wasn’t successful. 

“Johnny. Tell me what happened. We can get you ou-”

“No! No, you can’t, Ghost! You can’t get me out because there’s got to be a couple fucking tons of concrete pinning me to the floor and I can’t feel my legs anyways!” His voice was more raw than he realized. Panic was beginning to set in, his chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly as he pushed against the slab of concrete. He knew he was being irrational but suddenly the space was too small and there wasn’t any air left for him to breathe and he was gonna die this way all alone and-

“-nny! JOHNNY! I need you to focus. Give me your location. Now.” Soap always hated that tone of voice, it was so similar to the one he would use during interrogations. 

“The West building… I… I was on the second floor… I don’t know where I am now…” His words came out broken, small hiccups and cries interrupting his speech. 

“Good, Johnny, that’s good. We’re on our way to you, I want you to tell me what happened.” In all the time he had known Ghost, he had never heard fear like this in his voice, until now. 

He did his best to remember. Gaz had been right behind him when the call came through from Price for backup. Soap let Gaz go, insisting he could clear the, reportedly, empty building on his own. 

Everything was going fine until Soap entered the office on the second floor. The door had been attached to a trigger. 

“It was a trap LT. As soon as I opened the door…” Soap made another futile attempt at moving the concrete, not able to get any leverage without the use of his legs. “It was rigged to start a timer. I had maybe five seconds.”

He could taste salt and iron on his lips, a mix of his blood and tears, no doubt leaving his face a ghoulish sight. 

It was dark too, with only a few, faint, rays of light penetrating the mass of broken concrete and twisted steel. It was almost too dark to make any shapes out and everything was quiet.

“-oap? Tav? Where are you mate?” 

Soap startled, the voice pulling him from unconsciousness. 

“Kyle?” His voice was softer now, throat thoroughly worn raw from the mix of dust and screaming.

“Soap? You there mate?”

“Gaz!” Soap forced himself to call out louder, ignoring the way his throat ached.

“Price! Ghost! I can hear him! Keep talking, Soap!” He could hear Gaz shuffling closer, moving smaller pieces of concrete out of his way.

“I’m here!” He tried to move the slab again, desperately pushing at concrete, fingers leaving small trails of red in their wake.

“Johnny?” Soap couldn’t stop the sob that escaped him at the sound of Ghost’s voice. He sounded scared. Ghost never sounded scared. Not like this. Not since Las Almas. 

“Simon-” another sob. “I’m here, Si. Please, please-” his breaths were becoming more and more shallow, his head spinning more than it already was.

“I’m coming, Johnny. Keep talkin’ to me, love.” The shifting of concrete grew louder and louder as the men picked their way through the debris. 

For once in his life, Soap had nothing to say.

“C’mon, son. You gotta talk to us.” It was Price this time. Ever the leader, he seemed calm but there was the faintest edge of worry in his voice.

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry, Cap-”

“None of that son.” More light filled the space. It made Soap’s head swim more. 

A gloved hand pulled the piece of concrete next to his head away. 

“Johnny?”

“I’m here-” he sobbed again, desperately reaching for Ghost’s hand. His fingers brushed the rough fabric, Ghost’s hand closing around his own. “I can’t feel my legs, Si. I don’t- I don’t know what to do.”

“We’re gonna get you out of here, Johnny. You just focus on taking deep, slow breaths for me, yeah? You can do that for me, can’t you baby?” Soap didn’t realize how quickly he had been breathing, his heart seeming to race a thousand miles a minute. 

“Price and I- When we- You pull him out- Copy?” Soap only caught bits and pieces, his ability to multitask slipping away as he dedicated his focus to his breathing. 

“I’ve got you, mate.” He could hear Gaz behind him, feel him grasping at his bitch strap. “Gonna get you out of here.”

“3… 2… 1… Lift!” At the same time that Ghost and Price lifted the concrete, Gaz pulled Soap backward by the strap. 

A blood-curdling scream escaped Soap’s throat. White-hot pain bloomed in Soap’s abdomen.

“STOP! PLEASE! Please fucking stop!” He swiped behind him, trying to break Gaz’s hold on his vest.

Gaz relented, carefully letting Soap drop back against the pavement. 

It was quiet, all except for Soap’s pained sobs that ebbed into whimpers.

“-ohn. Johnny! Stay with me, baby.” Simon’s face swam into view, blond hair backlit by the last light of day. Worry was etched into his face, a warm hand cupping Johnny’s cheek. 

“What-?” Soap tried to push himself upright, whipping tears from his eyes as he took in the scene around him. 

Rebar. There wasn’t supposed to be rebar there. Rebar wasn’t supposed to stick out of him like that. 

“No, Johnny. Look at me.” Simon gently redirected his gaze, letting his head rest in his lap.

“I’m gonna die…” Soap’s voice was barely a whisper. 

“No, dove. We’re gonna get you out of here. Nik is already on the wa-”

“Simon, I don’t want to die in your arms. I don’t want you to see me take my last breath.” It was the steadiest Soap’s voice had been all night. 

“Johnny. I’m not lea-”

“Simon, go-”

“John MacTavish, I am not leaving you-”

“Please,” Soap hiccuped as he cried. “Please, Simon. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important to me. I… I don’t want your last memory of me to be my last breath.” 

It was silent for a moment, even Soap’s sobs going quiet as he waited for Simon to answer. 

Carefully, reverently, Simon cupped Soap’s face, leaning down to gently kiss him. His tears were salty on Soap’s lips.

“I will always love you, John MacTavish.” His voice was deep, thick with tears as he tried to maintain some semblance of composure for Soap’s sake. 

“I’ll always love you, Simon Riley. And I’ll wait for you.” Soap gave him a small smile, swallowing back another wave of pain that made his head swim. 

When Soap came to again Price was above him. 

“John?” The sound of his name on Soap’s lips gutted Price. Never had his sergeant sounded so small. “I’m scared.”

“None of that now, lad. Just focus on your breathing.” His hand was resting over Soap’s heart, feeling each breath the Scot took. “The pain will go away soon.”

“Cap, I need you to promise me that you’ll take care of Simon.” Soap forced his eyes to focus on Price above him, even as it got harder and harder to keep his eyes open.

“Of course, son. Just close your eyes and relax.” 

Soap nodded, looking up at the first swath of navy that had overtaken the sky. Soon enough he couldn’t tell the difference between the twinkling of the stars and the fluttering of his eyelids. 

Soon enough it didn’t matter. 

[infinite-riches]

I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Summary: He felt numb. Ground down. Empty.

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up.

It’s like this every morning.

Or: John "Soap" MacTavish is a burnt out gifted kid who finally hits his limit.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 3090

Warnings: none :)

A/N: Burnt out gifted kid Soap has been bouncing around in my head for the past couple of weeks- enjoy <3

As always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I Just Want You to Know I Tried

Twenty-nine years old. He had gotten so far in 29 years, and yet it somehow still wasn't enough. 

16.

His mam and da had always told him how proud they were, what a good example he set for his younger sister, and how his older sister could learn a thing or two from him. 

School always came easy to him. He flew through coursework for maths and sciences, especially chemistry, much to the chagrin of his older sister, Isla, who spent many a night pouring over her textbooks, and his younger sister, Nora, who saw his achievements as something to be bested. To top it all off, he was a star athlete— the best goalkeeper the county club had seen in years. 

But when it came down to it all, he didn’t feel like he was enough it didn’t feel like he was doing enough.

Then there was that little flyer— an ad from the local recruitment office plastered with some line about “being more for your country”. That memory of the weekend his cousin brought him on base to show him around cycled through his mind, and what he remembered seemed interesting.

He called his cousin and was on base the following weekend, too.

It became a habit. Eventually, it was less about seeing his cousin and more so about talking to his roommate, who specialized in demolitions. 

Soap was hooked. He could imagine the formulas and calculations in his head, and it finally felt like something big was clicking into place for him. 

18. 

Try as he might, they couldn’t let him join until he was properly 18, no matter what story or excuse he came up with. But once he was in? It was everything he needed— the structure that helped him thrive in school, the firm commands like the ones his football coach gave, plus, the goal of making the SAS shining in the distance.

No one could deny how driven John MacTavish was. He excelled in every aspect of training and even then didn’t let himself stop. His commander had his recommendation for the special forces written up before John could even ask— 3 months before he was even eligible. 

John pushed himself even harder. He trained almost day and night, determined to make it through selection on his first attempt. He got his hands on any training material he could and spent every spare second he had scrounging up any spare information he could get from his CO.  

20.

It was the hardest 5 months of his life. And at the end of it all, he became the youngest to ever pass selection. All his hard work had paid off in spades, but he still wanted more. 

So he learned everything he could. Took the opportunity for specialized training, devoured whatever books he could get his hands on, worked out until his muscles ached and begged for mercy, studied until he fell asleep atop his notes— whatever he could to try and quell that desire for more. 

He was Icarus, flying higher and higher. 

25.

He was home for the holidays when his phone rang. It was John Price. 

“I’m heading up a new task force and want y-” had barely left the older man’s lips when John said yes. 

He was on a flight out a week later, despite his family’s protests and Isla’s pleas for him to slow down and enjoy life just a little while he was young.

The words did nothing to shake his hunger like his sister had hoped they would. He was fully consumed by his need for more, and the 1-4-1 was his ticket. He knew he couldn’t throw this opportunity away.

27.

Two years under the leadership of Captain John Price and Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley had pushed him even further. He was supernaturally clean in the field, a menace with C4, and something to be truly feared when he had his hands on his favorite sniper rifle. 

Even with his hardened edge, he retained all the warmth and joy of a ray of sun.

Price and Ghost had decided it was time for him to start taking on more responsibility, starting with the rookies, so Soap took over their training anytime the team wasn't deployed. Rookies looked on as if he was something more than human. An impossibility in the world they all dedicated themselves to. 

And then his bedroom door would shut, and everything would crumble to pieces. Unlike Atlas, he couldn’t bear the weight, and the sky would slip from his shoulders. 

28.

It took every last ounce of strength he had to kick his boots off and shed his sweat-stained clothes. He stood under the scalding stream until his skin went numb, the thought of having to wash his hair a nauseating concept. 

The words still rang in his ears. “Son, I think you should look into officer training.”

Price wanted more. He wasn’t enough.

It was all too much.

29. 

He had every intention to go for his officer training, but then there were the missions. More and more just kept landing on Laswell’s desk, and in turn, they were handed down to Price. 

He felt numb. Ground down. Empty. 

His alarm cuts through the silence of his room, not that he needed it. The red numbers blinked brightly in the dim space. 04:45.

C’mon, MacTavish. Get up. 

It’s like this every morning. He has to force himself out from between the sheets. Despite how exhausted he is. Despite how much he hates cold linoleum in the mornings. Despite how little coffee helps nowadays. 

The cold air on his warm skin made him shudder. 

He put one foot in front of the other, retracing the same steps from the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that… on and on. 

He all but refused to look at himself in the mirror. He had lost weight, looking gaunt and pale. He could barely remember how bright and full of life he was at 27. 

The day started with a briefing. The data recovery team had finally managed to repair a damaged hard drive retrieved on the last mission. As hard as Soap tried, the information quickly became jumbled and tangled with his other thoughts. 

Ghost had stopped him the night before outside the mess. “Things look like they’re starting to calm down again. Have you given more thought to officer training?”

Soap had felt like he could have crumbled right then and there and finally let the weight of everything overtake and destroy him. 

Instead, he did what he does best and played along, stacking something else on his plate. “Yeah, L.T., still a couple of months out from the next intake, though.”

The memory played on a loop in his mind. Officer training. Officer training? Now? He was so tired already…

The day went by like every other, filled to the brim with training, both his own and his rookies’, plus any mission prep, and now, preparing for officer training. There was no time for anything else, certainly not himself.

And then it was evening— another restless night, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling. 

Useless. Weak. Lazy. Not enough. Worthless. 

And like usual, Soap found himself on autopilot, feet carrying himself towards the gym. 

The treadmill sounded like pure torture, but he didn’t trust himself to deadlift in this state without a spotter. Punching bag it was. 

He didn’t bother to wrap his knuckles and rarely did anymore, allowing himself to relish in the sting of freshly split skin and warm blood. 

The minutes disappeared one after another, and suddenly Soap was lost deep within his own mind. Too deep to catch himself when the day finally caught up with him, the lack of food making him dizzy and sending him off balance. He collapsed into the bag, blood-slick hands grasping to make purchase on the sweat-dampened material as his knees made vicious contact with the unpadded floor. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there in a haze and didn’t know he was crying, either. Not until Ghost crowded his vision, blocking out the buzzing fluorescents, face twisted in worry, lips moving but strangely lacking sound. 

“-nny! Johnny, can you hear me?” The Scot looked up at him, ocean-blue eyes overrun with tears and confusion clear on his face. 

“Ghost? What-?” Soap tried to put the missing pieces together, but no matter how hard he tried, there were still empty spots. 

Ghost kneeled next to him, the faintest edge of panic in his voice, his firm grasp turning Soap’s face in his hand. “Where are you bleeding from?” 

All Ghost could make out was a mess of smeared blood, sweat, and tears. There were no obvious injuries he could see. He didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“Bleeding?” Soap’s gaze seemed fuzzy as if he were far away.

“Yes, Johnny, you’re bleeding. Please, help me out here…” Ghost was begging. 

Ghost doesn’t beg. The thought made Soap’s head swim even more. He reached up, resting his hand on Ghost’s outstretched arm. “‘m fine, Ghostie.” His voice was thick with tears.

A wounded noise escaped Ghost at the sight of Soap’s knuckles. They were covered in blood, and he could see the edges of torn skin. Blood trailed down the tanned skin he loved so much, wrapping around his firm forearms like trailing vines. “Johnny…”

“‘m fine, L.T.” Soap started to pull himself away from the Brit, wobbling despite not even being on his feet.

“John, please talk to me. Let me help.” Soap could see the concern and fear in Ghost’s eyes, and that cut him to his core and sent him spiraling.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying, I promise. Please, L.T., I can do this.” Soap’s words were a babbling mess as the tears returned in full force. 

Ghost pulled the smaller man into his chest, holding him tightly and running his fingers through Soap’s hair.

Everything was starting to click for Ghost— the way Soap’s eyes didn’t shine like they used to, how his smile no longer reached his eyes, the way his laugh sounded dull. His Johnny was falling apart, and that thought made Ghost want to fall apart. 

He knew he and Price had been pushing the Scot, but the man had never given any indication that it was too much. He took everything he was given in stride and seemed ready for more at any moment. 

“Shh, Johnny. It’s okay, it’s okay…” He pulled Soap even closer, trying to soothe the broken man. “Everything is okay.”

It took Soap about an hour to snap out of the breakdown he had been stuck in. 

And with one look, Ghost broke Soap’s walls, and everything came pouring out.

“I can’t do it, Ghost. Ever since I was little, I was supposed to be the best. School, then football, then the army. It was good at first, easy even. Took in everything I could get my hands on. But then the energy just… disappeared. And I tried. I tried to keep going and keep getting better. I tried to be everything you and Price want but I just… I can’t. It's too much. I’m sorry. I can’t be everything you want, and I understand if you want me off the team, I just want you to know I tried.” His words were interrupted with little sobs as he laid his soul bare for Ghost, head buried in the larger man’s chest.

And Ghost finally understood why Soap looked like a husk of his former self— because he was. He had given everything until there was nothing left, and then still kept trying. 

“Oh, Johnny…” Ghost guided the Scot back, gently cupping his face with both hands. “I love you just as you are. Never could want more than what you are, ‘cause you’re perfect, Johnny. And I’m so sorry I didn’t see what this— what I was doing to you.” He placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, holding him close yet again as the sobs returned. 

“You love me?” His voice was soft, stuttered, and choked with tears as he lifted his eyes to see Ghost’s, the barest glimmer of hope shining through. He had feelings for his lieutenant that ran deep, but he always assumed they were one-sided. That the flirty banter was just something to break the tension on missions, something that carried over from Las Almas. 

A small laugh rumbled through Ghost’s chest as he cupped Soap’s jaw in his hand, his thumb brushing against the stubble. “Yes, Johnny. I love you. Now let's get you cleaned up.” Carefully untangling Soap from his arms, he began to push himself to his feet.

“Wait!” Soap caught Ghost’s arm, bloodied fingers wrapping around the pale skin of his forearm, catching the man before he could stand. Ghost caught his gaze, looking for what else could be wrong. The concern made Soap melt a little more.

“I love you.” Soap pulled the larger man into a surprisingly bone-crushing hug for how worn he looked. “And I hope you still want me…” The words came out muffled from where he had buried his face in Ghost’s neck.

“Johnny,” Ghost felt like his heart had just split straight down the middle, torn apart by the Scot’s worry. “I’ll always want you. Don’t ever doubt that.” 

He placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Soap’s head despite the balaclava, and let the man find comfort in his chest for a few more moments. “C’mon, you need your rest.”

Without any protest from Soap, they untangled themselves, getting to their feet. Ghost guided Soap through the halls, hands intertwined, not fully able to trust that Soap wouldn’t lose his balance with how out of it the man looked. 

Soap gave Ghost a look as they walked straight past his door, but Ghost only carried on, not stopping until they were at his door. He directed Soap inside and to the edge of the bed, placing another masked kiss on his forehead. “Stay here, I’m just going to get some things for your hands.”

Soap could hear the tap start to run in the small connected bathroom as he let his eyes wander. The space was clean and organized with precision, not unlike his lieutenant. The one space that captured his attention was the windowsill. It was cluttered with photos, some torn or worn with age, blackened at the edge, others that were well kept but just as old— none of them were recent. Soap could only assume they were family, but he couldn’t know for sure, because it wasn’t something Ghost had ever talked about. 

“Johnny?” Ghost was standing at the head of the bed, not wanting to sneak up on the Scot. 

“Hmm?” Soap caught his gaze and blushed, not expecting to find Ghost without his mask. He dropped his eyes to the floor and shifted over, making more space for Ghost.

“No need, love.” Ghost knelt on the floor in front of Soap, gently lifting his hand and beginning to carefully clean his bloody knuckles. Soap hissed and jerked at the sensation, trying to busy himself with studying the room, the sudden itch to do something returning.

Ghost noticed the way Soap seemed agitated by being left to do nothing. Initially, he thought it to be the Scot’s natural drive, but now it seemed more likely to be driven by whatever anxiety had pushed him past his breaking point in the first place. 

“Talk to me, Johnny. Tell me about that new chemical composition you were testing last week.” Soap seemed to relax a little at that, his mind undoubtedly finding comfort in the familiarity of something that came so easily to him. 

Ghost worked as Soap prattled on, explaining all the different components he had tested and why. The ease with which he spoke made Simon smile. It had become so commonplace to see Soap so wound up that this was like a breath of fresh air. This was his Johnny, the one he had fallen for all those months ago in Las Almas. 

As Simon finished, it was painfully obvious that Soap was flagging. His eyelids were heavy, and he was starting to sag back into the mattress. Gently, Simon helped Soap out of his bloody mess of a t-shirt and into one of his own, laughing to himself at the way it hung off Soap’s slightly smaller form. 

“I’ll be back, okay? Just going to get myself ready for bed. You get comfortable.” Simon placed a kiss on his forehead, lips warm on Soap’s cool skin.

“Here?” The confusion was clear on Soap’s face, despite the exhaustion.

Panic began to rise in Simon’s chest, worried he was pushing too fast. “Do you want to go back to your room?” His words were soft, not wanting to pressure the exhausted man.

Soap thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not if you want me here.” Soap couldn’t resist anymore, desperately craving to be held in Simon’s arms, to let someone else do all the heavy lifting, just for a little while. 

“Always. Get yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.” The door to the bathroom clicked closed, with the moonlight being the only thing to illuminate the space now. 

Soap looked over his freshly bandaged knuckles, gently rubbing his fingers over the tape. 

Simon loves me. He wants me. Wants me how I am. 

It felt good to be wanted, especially by the man he had been pining after for so long, but he couldn’t deny how unsteady he still felt. Everything still weighed so heavy on his shoulders. 

He shook the feeling away, kicking off his sweatpants and slipping in between the sheets of Simon’s perfectly made bed. He was hit by the subtle scent of peppermint, cedarwood, and eucalyptus, somehow warm and cool and home all in one scent. He let himself melt into the comfort of the space, the gentle sounds of Simon rummaging about in the bathroom providing the white noise that was making it harder and harder to stay awake. 

Soap startled at the mattress dipping next to him, rubbing the first dregs of sleep from his eyes.

“It's just me, Johnny, go back to sleep.” Simon's voice rumbled through the quiet space. Soap nodded, humming happily as he felt Simon lay behind him, an arm thrown over his waist to hold him close. 

“Love you, Simon.”

“Love you, Johnny.”

[infinite-riches]

Like A Wet Dream

Summary: “Shit, Ghost… they’re coming. We’ve gotta come up with a plan to get out of here or risk getting made.” Soap’s eyes frantically scanned the small alley, locking in on a fire escape.

Ghost watched as Soap scanned the space, how the rain was clinging to his hair. His pupils were slightly blown, chest heaving from the sudden exertion of their hasty retreat. Ghost was trying to focus on Johnny’s plan but couldn't.

Or: The boys have to come up with a plan to avoid being caught.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 820

Warnings: none :)

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by this tweet by @blendedmojito on twitter

As always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): Like A Wet Dream

They had been spotted tailing their latest target, one slip-up resulting in the target’s security team pushing in on their location. It was a crowded city center, there was nothing to do but run. Pushing past civilians and weaving between market stalls for long enough to turn down a side street, breaking into an all-out sprint. 

Soap rounded the corner into a small, dimly lit alley, shoved between a cafe and a gift shop. Rain had begun to fall hard and fast, leaving his clothes drenched, cold already seeping into his bones. His heart was pounding in his chest, Ghost following his lead into the secluded space. 

The sound of heavy bootfalls became apparent as the group of men rounded the corner onto the street, the sound echoing around in Soap’s head. 

“Shit, Ghost… they’re coming. We’ve gotta come up with a plan to get out of here or risk getting made.” Soap’s eyes frantically scanned the small alley, locking in on a fire escape. 

Ghost watched as Soap scanned the space, how the rain was clinging to his hair. His pupils were slightly blown, chest heaving from the sudden exertion of their hasty retreat. Ghost was trying to focus on Johnny’s plan but couldn't, not when he looked like a wet dream– figuratively and literally. 

“There,” Soap nodded towards the rusted fire escape. His heart was beating faster, the enemies sounding impossibly close as he chanced a look. A team of three was several shops down, eyeing an alleyway much like the one they were in.

Soap was taking too long and Ghost knew it. The enemies had to be less than three shops down from them and approaching fast. Without much hesitation, Ghost pushed his mask up over his nose. 

Soap was turning back to get the affirmative from Ghost, “We could make a break for the stai-” He was quickly silenced, warm lips pressing against his, his body being pressed back against the rough, cold brick. His head was swimming. His Lieutenant? Kissing him? No. Not a chance. Ghost wasn’t like that. Ghost didn’t like people like that. 

As much as Soap knew reality would put him on his ass, he gave in to the moment. Ghost’s hands were holding either side of his head, the fabric of his hoodie covering his ears so all he could hear was the racing thrum of his heartbeat. His hands grasped at the slick rain jacket covering Ghost’s back. Ghost’s lips felt like heaven on his, softer than he'd expected, and so, so much better than he had ever dreamed. Soap kissed back with a pent-up fervor, allowing himself to sink further into this fantasy made reality. 

The security team was passing the alley they were in, only stopping for a moment before the intimate scene in front of them spurred them on. “No eyes on target, moving to the next street.”

Neither man cared. The rain came down harder, drowning out any other possible distraction. Ghost kissed Soap with the passion of a man possessed. He was taking everything Soap was giving and still begging for more. And Soap was putty in his hands, soft and pliant under the man he had been pining after for so long. 

Ghost couldn’t let go. He didn’t know how. Not now. Not when he finally had exactly what he wanted. And as long as Soap would let him, he would take more. He let his tongue slide along Soap’s bottom lip, a hesitant request for permission. 

The feeling of Ghost’s teasing tongue made Soap weak at the knees, hands grasping his Lieutenant a little tighter. He happily obliged, lips spreading, a moan escaping as Ghost began to explore his mouth. 

Ghost memorizes what it's like to kiss Soap, knowing there’s a good chance this will be the only time. He pushes the thought away, pulling Soap in even closer, tongue sweeping into the Scot’s mouth. 

All at once reality comes crashing back to the forefront of Soap’s mind, pulling back to rest his head against the brick wall behind him. 

“LT…? They… they’re gone…” Soap’s chest heaves, pupils blown for a whole different reason, his breath against Ghost’s skin pushing back the chill brought on by the rain. Ghost takes in every inch of the sight before him— the way Soap’s bottom lip is puffy and covered in spit, the way he’s grasping at his thigh, trying to channel his energy elsewhere.

“They could come back, Johnny…” Ghost holds Soap’s gaze. it’s an opening, an opportunity for Soap to turn him down and walk away. 

Before Ghost can clock the movement Soap is pushing him back against the opposite wall, caging him in with his strong arms, one leg between his. “Maybe we should keep this up then, just in case…”

And Ghost doesn’t need any more of an invitation before he’s cupping Soap’s face in his hands and kissing him again. 

[infinite-riches]

I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm

Summary: The sky was already filled with grey clouds and a haze that only meant one thing– snow. And it was coming soon. It was rare for them to get snow thanks to their proximity to the coast and even when they did, it didn’t stick around long. As nervous as Johnny was about the impending storm, he was equally excited by the prospect of being snowed in with his lover.

Or: The boys get snowed in together.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 4,567

Warnings: none :)

A/N: I am gonna take a minute to thank all the people that helped me with this monster piece. Lots of love to the CoD Babygirls and GhostSoap servers- so many people helped generate ideas and cheered me on and I'm so thankful to all y'all!

Extra love to my beta readers/editors for this piece: Xnihilo and ANTchan. All my fucking love to y'all cause I seriously couldn't have done this without your help <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm

The shop was bustling with people stocking up– word had gone out that a brutal winter storm was headed their way and it had everyone rushing out to prepare. Johnny scanned down the aisle, looking for a few pantry staples they had recently run short on when he felt the cart move, the familiar shadow of Simon in the corner of his vision.

With a glance down, Johnny couldn’t help but laugh. Tablet, shortbread, and caramel logs now rested atop the pile of groceries. “Ye and yer bloody sweet tooth!”

“You know you love me…” Simon responded, eyes crinkling at the corners, signaling he was smiling beneath his black medical mask.

“Aye, that ah do… now go be of some real help and grab some Irn-Bru, would ye?” Johnny just barely caught the way Simon rolled his eyes before slipping back down the aisle in search of Johnny’s favorite drink. Simon failed to understand the appeal of the strange orange soda. To him, the taste was a peculiar mix of cream soda, ginger, and bubble gum that made him want to scrub his tongue with a Brillo pad.

By the end of the shopping trip, two boxes of Simon’s favorite tea and a bottle of Johnny’s favorite scotch had also appeared in the cart alongside the things they actually needed– milk, bread, jerky, fish food for Bubbles and Casper, and cat litter for Old Man. This could quite possibly be their last shopping trip for several days– the threat of heavy snow combined with the location of their cabin almost guaranteed they would be snowed in.

As much as Simon had come to love their little cabin beyond the edge of town, he had to admit it had taken getting used to. The nicely sized cabin sat on a decent piece of land, with beautiful old pines along one edge of the property and sprawling green grass along the other. There was a large space cleared out behind the house where Johnny had taken to keeping a garden. Simon, on the other hand, had taken claim to the shed, using the space to fix up his motorcycle (and secretly fix one up for Johnny).

But the best part of their new home (and life together) was the privacy. The only people who passed along the road at the edge of the property were the neighbors who lived 5 miles down the road in either direction or the occasional lost tourists. Aside from that, they were left alone, with no one to bother them or their pets.

-----

Johnny couldn’t help but smile to himself on the drive back. The sky was already filled with grey clouds and a haze that only meant one thing– snow. And it was coming soon. It was rare for them to get snow thanks to their proximity to the coast and even when they did, it didn’t stick around long. As nervous as Johnny was about the impending storm, he was equally excited by the prospect of being snowed in with his lover.

Sure, he and Simon had their fair share of wintery missions– brutal snow storms, shitty MREs, and frozen fingertips– before they retired, but those paled in comparison to snuggling in front of the fire together, warm blankets and hot drinks in hand, watching fluffy flakes of white drifting past the window.

Simon’s hand found its way to rest comfortably on Johnny’s thigh, thumb brushing along the thick material of his jeans, “You good?” His voice was soft, having noticed the way Johnny was lost in thought.

Johnny hummed in response, a sweet smile spreading along his face, “Aye, just thinkin’…”

“Don’t hurt yourself, love,” Simon teased, a sly grin on his lips. Johnny reached over to smack Simon’s chest, a chuckle escaping his lips as he did.

-----

The bitter cold nipped at Johnny’s fingertips as he leaned against the door frame. He couldn’t help but stare as Simon worked his way through the long-neglected woodpile next to the shed. Strong, broad arms swung the axe through the air with ease, and a satisfying crack rang out each time the steel made contact with the soft pine. His eyes raked across the delicious outline of Simon’s muscles beneath his thermal shirt– jacket long shed so he didn’t overheat.

Johnny allowed his mind to wander, images of Simon on top of him, caging him in with strong, broad arms, firm fingers gliding down flushed skin filling his brain. He imagined warm lips working their way down from his ear to his jaw, neck, collarbone, from his sternum down– an especially loud crack of the axe stole Johnny’s attention from his fantasy. “Love, when yer finished, ah need help gettin’ a few things out from storage!”

“I’ll be in soon, we need anything from the shed?” Simon leaned on the axe, chest heaving from the exertion as he took in the delicious sight of Johnny wearing his sweats. The pants were hanging loose on his hips, his sleeves a little too long, the neckline showing just the top of Johnny’s shoulder. ‘Riley’ was emblazoned just above his heart. Simon tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. Johnny, the little minx, knew what it did to Simon when he wore his clothes, the way it made his heart race and head spin seeing his Johnny so clearly claimed.

“Dinnae think so… just bring some of that firewood in and I’ll help ye get the rest later!” With that Simon gave a nod and turned back to the woodpile. Johnny took one last sinful look at his ass before slipping back into the warmth of their house.

In all honesty, Johnny probably could have figured out a way to get their sleeping bags and insulated jackets down from storage on his own, but he much preferred Simon helping. After years spent skirting prying eyes and sneaking moments alone, Johnny had become greedy for Simon’s time and attention, unable to stand much time apart. That, and Johnny knew the cold would be seeping into Simon’s bones by now, fingers especially cold courtesy of his poor circulation.

It was almost automatic, the way Johnny moved towards the stove, putting the kettle on and reaching for Simon’s favorite mug– one Johnny had bought him. ‘World’s Best Dad’ was sprawled across the front but ‘Dad’ had been crossed out, replaced with ‘Lieutenant’. As he had a hundred times before, Johnny added two sugar cubes and a bag of Simon’s favorite Earl Grey to the mug. It had been one of the few subtle ways he had been able to care for Simon when they were deployed. Every morning, there had been a fresh, steaming mug on Simon’s desk accompanied by a sticky note doodle, always signed ‘–Johnny’.

The sound of the back door closing and boots on the hardwood brought Johnny from his thoughts. The kettle was already whistling, demanding his attention. Johnny filled the mug, meeting Simon halfway from the kitchen.

A few beads of water clung to his blond strands, courtesy of the snow beginning to fall at a heavy rate. “Snow’s moving in, I’ll need to get the firewood in before I help you, doll,” he said, graciously accepting the mug and placing a gentle kiss to the top of Johnny’s head. The warmth seeped into his fingertips, a gracious relief from the growing numbness.

“Aye, I’ll head out, ye get warmed up a bit. Cannae have ye freezing to death on me… leaving me behind with Old Man, Casper, and Bubbles…” As if on cue the scrapy old shelter cat came slinking down the hallway, happy to settle himself between Simon’s legs.

“Impossible, you wouldn’t survive a day cooped up with em’ all. We can barely keep Old Man out of the fish tank as is,” Simon chuckled, leaning down to scoop Old Man up in one arm. “Isn’t that right, Cap?” The old cat bristled at the sudden change in elevation, taking a languid swing at Simon’s head.

“Just like Price,” Johnny laughed, moving towards the door to pull his boots on. “Shouldnae take me too long, stay here and get warmed up.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer, love.” As Simon moved to the oversized armchair in the living room, Old Man followed, happily settling into Simon’s lap once he was comfortable.

And if the sight of Johnny ditching his sweatshirt after a few visits to the woodpile, broad tan chest glistening with sweat despite the crisp edge to the air, warmed him up more than the tea, then that was his business.

-----

“Ah think we just need our winter gear… oh, and the sleepin’ bags in case the power goes out!” Johnny was standing at the foot of the ladder, supposedly helping Simon get the winter kits out. Really, he was staring at Simon’s ass more than he was doing any real helping.

Simon reached for the bin containing their old white camos, flexing a little extra for his lover as he did. “Grab this for me, Johnny?” Simon passed the bin down single-handedly, rolling his right shoulder to ease the ache afterward. It had never quite recovered after the mission that pushed them both to retire.

It wasn’t something either of them looked back on with any fondness– a source of nightmares and panic attacks for both boys long after returning home. An op gone wrong, courtesy of bad intel, put Johnny in the hospital for 3 weeks in a coma and left Simon with nerve damage in his right arm. It was then that they both put in for retirement, realizing just how much they had to lose now that they had each other.

This time, Simon reached out with his left arm, grasping at bundles of fabric that had been pushed to the back of the shelf. The silky material slid across his fingertips as he struggled to find purchase on one of the straps they were tied up with. With a final stretch, he got a good grip, hauling them towards the front of the shelf.

The slight hyperextension of his shoulder was enough to aggravate the old wound, the muscle spasming in response. All at once, the sleeping bags fell from the shelf and his grip on the ladder gave out, sending him tumbling to the floor.

“Simon!” In a flash Johnny had ditched the box, sliding next to Simon. Thankfully, the Brit had landed on top of the sleeping bags. He was silent for a moment before a bright grin stretched across his face, accompanied by his deep laugh.

“Wha-” Johnny was quickly cut off, Simon’s strong hands guiding him to rest in his lap.

“I’m okay, doll… maybe just a little bruised up,” Simon’s honey-brown eyes sparkled in the dim light of the closet, locked on the still bewildered face of his lover. Calloused hands reached up to cup Johnny’s face. “You okay?”

“Bloody hell… ye scared the piss outta me, Simon Riley!” Though Johnny’s tone was scolding, he couldn’t hide the smile threatening to take over his features.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, now that you’re old and retired.” There was a sly grin on Simon’s face as he gave Johnny’s hips a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, piss off!” Johnny grumbled, pushing himself off of Simon’s lap before offering the Brit a hand up. Johnny collected the discarded bin as Simon gathered up the sleeping bags, both heading back towards the living room. “Besides, ye cannae say I’m the old one when ye cannae even stand on a ladder.”

Simon took the opportunity to toss one of the sleeping bags at the Scot, grinning as it bounced off his back. Johnny stumbled forward. “Hey!”

“Don’t look at me– it was Bubbles and Casper!” Simon fluttered his lashes and gave a soft, innocent smile, shrugging towards the fish tank as he tossed the other sleeping bag onto the couch.

“Bubbles and Casper, my arse,” Johnny grumbled, tossing the other sleeping bag to the couch.

-----

Johnny pulled the last few blankets from the dryer, having taken the opportunity to finally give them a good wash, and brought them to the living room. A bright laugh was ripped from his lips as he watched Simon struggle to manage the guest mattress by himself, eventually settling to drop it on the floor and push it the rest of the way. They planned to spend the evening snuggled up in front of the fire, just in case they did lose power.

“Ye could've asked if ye needed a hand, love,” Johnny teased, tossing the stack of warm blankets onto the mattress, now situated in front of the roaring fireplace. Simon threw himself into the warm pile without hesitation, immediately snuggling up like a cat.

“Thanks, Johnny, have a good night!” He pulled his favorite blanket from the pile, tucking it up under his chin.

“Oh no ye don’t! Ye promised we’d go outside and make snowmen!” Johnny pounced on the mattress, swiping the blanket away and grabbing Simon's chin, tilting his face upwards to look him in the eye. “Unless ye lied to me, Simon Riley…”

“Lie? To you? I would never, I’m offended you’d even think that.” Quickly, Simon leaned up, capturing Johnny’s lips in a soft kiss. He then reached down to give Johnny a quick smack on his ass. “Go grab our jackets from the bin, I’ll grab your boots.”

“On it, sir!” Johnny gave him a quick kiss in return before heading to collect their coats.

In no time, the boys were bundled up, donning their old insulated jackets, the white and grey camo pattern worn away in a few spots from the years of good use.

Simon kneeled down to tie Johnny’s boots, wordlessly grabbing his leg and placing the Scot’s foot on his thigh. Fingers slipped into a familiar rhythm, weaving the lace through the last few hooks before pulling tight, a sturdy knot securing it all in place.

Johnny watched, a faint blush creeping up his neck, still amazed to see this side of Simon. The side that was always taking care of him, putting him first– one of the thousands of reasons he loved the man before him.

The Scot was out the door first, practically vibrating out of his skin as he waited at the top of the stairs for Simon. Simon had seen Johnny excited plenty of times, but this was different– more innocent, more childlike– and Simon couldn’t get enough. The way Johnny’s smile stretched all the way to his eyes, alight with pure, unbridled joy. The way he had planned everything out from the moment they got the weather warning.

The Brit tugged on his coat, the weight settling firmly on his shoulders, a remnant of their past life. “Down boy, I’m right here,” Simon chuckled, slotting his hand into Johnny’s as the Scot immediately started down the stairs.

In an instant, Johnny’s foot slipped out from beneath him, his grasp on Simon desperately tightening. Instead of being hauled upright as he had hoped, Simon unwillingly joined him on his downward trajectory. A heap of tangled limbs and snow was how the boys found themselves at the bottom of the stairs.

“Fuckin’ hell…” Simon carefully flexed his hips, trying to stretch out the muscle. “You solid, beautiful?” His voice was low and he reached for Johnny, hand making contact with his shin. Somehow Johnny ended up splayed halfway on top of Simon, his head cradled between the Brit’s shins. Neither boy was injured enough to be worried over, just bruises and scrapes reminiscent of their time in the 141.

“Aye, I’m alright,” Johnny pushed himself off Simon, misjudging the amount of snow and landing face-first in the powder. “Steamin’ bloody jesus!” he sputtered, rolling onto his back and wiping his face.

Simon hauled himself up into a sitting position, forearms resting on knees as he watched Johnny start to squirm in the snow. “Love… did you hit your head on the way down?”

“Awa' an bile yer heid!” Johnny laughed. “‘I’m makin’ a bloody snow angel!” Simon blushed as he finally saw it properly, chuckling to himself.

“C’mon, let’s get you up before you catch a cold and I have to care for you for two weeks.” Simon pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand for Johnny.

“Caring for me…? Does that include ye in a little nurse’s uniform?” Johnny waggled his eyebrows at the continuously flushing Brit.

“That’s enough!” Simon laughed, somehow turning an even deeper shade of red, and leaned down to haul the Scot up and place him firmly on his feet.

“So that’s a no on wearing a skirt for me?” Johnny fluttered his lashes as he gave Simon his best puppy dog eyes.

Simon hesitated as he brushed the snow off his pants, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. Johnny would have to be blind to not notice Simon's hesitance combined with the way the blush had completely overtaken him. Couldn’t help but imagine the way his pale blushing skin would look in lacey white fabric, cute red ribbons, a short skirt… “That’s not a no!” Johnny exclaimed, cutting his own thoughts off, stumbling a little as he laughed.

Both boys set to creating their snow sculptures, occasionally lobbing a snowball at the other.

“Si!” Johnny was beaming as he stepped aside, revealing a rather proper-looking snowman, three round globes of snow piled high, blue scarf wrapped around its neck, rocks making up its face, complete with a snow baseball cap.

“Is that… is that Gaz…?”

A deep laugh erupts from Simon’s chest as Johnny proudly nods.

“Aye, it is! What did ye make, love?” The Scot moved closer to Simon, trying to understand what the boxy form before him was. There was a series of wide rectangles stacked one atop the other, a small downed branch poking out the shorter side of the stack of the rectangles.

“It's a uh… I made a tank. Figure you wanna use a ground assault this time instead of demolitions though…” Before the Brit had even finished his joke, Johnny was launching himself through the air, directly on top of the pile of snow. He landed with a puff of snow up into the air, legs dangling out of what was once the side of the tank.

With a huff and shrug of his shoulders, Simon joined Johnny in the snow, a hand planted on either side of his face, leaning over him. He took a moment to admire Johnny, the flush to his cheeks, the sparkle in his eyes, his bright laugh, the little white flecks of snow on his lashes, everything he had ever dreamed of and more. Simon pulled his glove off with his teeth, gently cupping Johnny’s face.

“You know how much I love you, Johnny?” His voice was soft, breath condensing in the air with each word.

“Aye, ah think ah do, but I’ll never say no to hearing it again…” Simon’s hand felt so soft on his face, despite the callouses and years of scaring, it was one of his favorite things.

“I love you more than the moon loves the sun, Johnny. I love you more than the waves love the shore… I love you more than I love breathing, John MacTavish. I will ‘till the day I die.” He leaned down, lips slotting perfectly against the Scot’s. Soft and sweet and filled with so much love it made Johnny’s heart feel like it was about to burst.

“Ah love you so damn much, Simon Riley.” He eagerly reciprocated, hands wrapping around Simon’s waist, sliding down past his hips, resting with a firm grip on his ass, pulling him closer.

By the time they untangled themselves from each other’s arms, neither man could deny the cold was starting to get to them. Simon’s fingers started to feel more than just the regular level of icyness for this time of year. Johnny slipped his arm around Simon’s waist, attempting to take some of the weight off his bad knee– the slip down the stairs seemed to have taken more of a toll than he first realized.

“I’ve got you, doll.” Simon slipped his arm around Johnny, basically shouldering all of the smaller man’s weight as they all but hobbled up the stairs.

“We make a right lousy pair, don’t we?” Johnny chuckled as Simon pushed the front door open.

“Are you calling me lousy? I’m wounded!” Simon feigned a hurt expression, his hand dramatically over his heart. As had become routine for the pair, Simon kneeled down, fingers deftly undoing Johnny’s laces before undoing his own. The old well-worn boots were discarded by the door, snow-covered jackets were tossed over hooks on the wall.

“Wounded and dramatic as ever, Lt. Ahm going to make some hot chocolate, should I add bourbon in yers, love?” Johnny was already halfway into the kitchen, making a mental note to stop at the pantry to grab the brown sugar, chocolate, and cocoa powder.

“Fuck yes, doll,” the Brit called out, peeling off towards the living room and swiping his lighter from the table near the entryway as he went. He set to making up the mattress, Johnny’s favorite sheets under layers upon layers of soft blankets. One of Johnny’s favorite candles was lit and Simon slipped off to the bedroom to grab his book and the Scot’s sketchbook.

By the time Simon made it to the kitchen, Johnny was leaning over an old, dusty cookbook, spatula in hand as milk heated on the stove. The Brit threaded his arms around Johnny’s waist, resting his chin on the Scot’s shoulder.

“Hey… you didn’t tell me you got the good chocolate…” Simon placed a gentle kiss below Johnny’s ear, hand sneaking forward towards the cutting board.

“Oh no ye don’t!” Johnny exclaimed, smacking the back of Simon’s hand with the spatula. “That chocolate was damn near 30 pounds and ye will not touch any!”

“Selfish bastard,” Simon grumbled, placing his hand back around Johnny’s waist.

“If ye cannae behave then ye can get gone from here!” The Brit smirked at Johnny’s challenge, an opportunity to get back at the Scot’s teasing about a nurse’s uniform. He let his cold fingertips slip beneath the warm material of Johnny’s shirt, beginning to trace delicate patterns into his skin.

“I can be good for you, promise,” Simon whispered in Johnny’s ear, lips just barely grazing the sensitive skin. Simon could feel the shiver that ran down Johnny’s spine.

“Simon…” A breathless moan escaped Johnny’s lips, and he had to press one hand into the counter to hold himself up on suddenly shaky legs.

“Hmm…? Something wrong, doll?” Simon’s voice had dropped deeper, rumbling through Johnny’s chest. He let a hand wander down the front of Johnny’s thigh, squeezing the firm muscle.

“You… Please, Si… cannae focus like this…” Johnny tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, desperately trying to contain another moan and focus on the recipe in front of him.

“Oh, but I think you can, doll. Used to be able to handle all that flirting in the field… don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on me…” his lips traced down Johnny’s neck, settling in the crook, teeth scraping along sensitive skin, lips living behind a light pink mark.

“We… Later Si… Ah– ah swear, please…” The Scot’s head dropped back onto Simon’s chest as his knees went weak, neck fully exposed as Simon held him up.

Simon smirked and nipped at his neck again, one hand sliding up to grasp Johnny’s chin, guiding him to refocus on the stove, “Focus, beautiful.” In a flash Simon had disappeared from behind the Scot, seating himself at the bar with his book already open in front of him. “Be a good boy, Johnny.”

Johnny gripped the counter, knuckles white, taking a few steadying breaths. He glared back at Simon for a moment before resuming his task of following his gran’s hot chocolate recipe. He could occasionally feel the weight of Simon’s stare, particularly on his ass as he worked.

After a few minutes of silence, Simon looked up as a steaming mug slid into his peripheral. “Yer favorite bourbon in it, like ye like,” Johnny kissed Simon’s cheek as he headed towards the living room, his own steaming mug cradled in his grasp.

Johnny couldn’t help the soft blush that spread across his cheeks when he noticed the way Simon had prepared the living room. The mattress was piled high with blankets, a roaring fire and his favorite candle filling the entire space with warmth. Old Man was curled up in the armchair, halfway sitting on top of his sketchbook.

Johnny lowered himself down onto the mattress, setting his mug on the coffee table Simon had moved to the side. “C’mon handsome, yer not gonna leave me all alone here, are ye?”

Simon chuckled and shook his head, mirroring Johnny's movements from mere moments before. Johnny tugged the Brit closer, smiling as he rested his head on his chest. “As much as ‘m not a fan of the cold, I wish we got snow like this a little more often…”

“Aye, would be nice. ‘Specially if it meant getting to keep ye all bundled up and wrapped up in my arms like this more…” Johnny placed a soft kiss on the top of Simon’s head, pulling him ever so slightly closer.

Simon hummed, tucking his head into Johnny’s chest, relishing in the warmth of their bodies together. Johnny had become his safe space, his anchor. No matter how good or bad the day was, Johnny was there. The last time Simon felt this loved was when he was young, wrapped up in his mother’s arms. Johnny was there, every nightmare or panic attack, he was there, holding him tight, holding him together. No matter how much Simon fucked up, Johnny was there. He hoped Johnny knew that Simon would burn the world down if he asked, and would stop at nothing to take care of him.

Johnny carded his fingers through Simon’s hair, eyes tracing over the sharp features of his face. He knew he was lucky to get to see and know this side of Simon– he thanked whoever was above everyday for the opportunity. The man so soft and sweet in his arms had come so far from who he was when they first met. He had worked so hard and Johnny was more proud than he knew how to express. Hoped Simon saw it in every cup of tea Johnny made for him, every candy bar he picked up on grocery runs, every forehead kiss. Hoped Simon knew how hard he was trying too, how much he cared and valued the trust he put in him. Hoped Simon knew how grateful he was for him too, the effortless way the Brit was able to hold him together like it was the easiest thing in the world.

They watched the snowfall for hours, big, fluffy white flakes pilling ever higher and higher. The fire roared on, keeping all 5 inhabitants of the Riley-MacTavish house plenty warm.

At some point, the boys slipped between blankets, soft kisses littered across flush skin, hands pulling bodies ever closer. And when the heat got too much between them, if they stripped down and carried on then that was between them and no one else.

[infinite-riches]

And if I hurt you?

Summary: “Hurt me? Simon…” Johnny reached up, warm, calloused hands cupping Simon’s face, thumbs sliding across strong cheekbones. “You couldnae hurt me. I trust you with my life, including you wieldin’ my trimmer. Try? For me?”

Or: Simon has a tremor and is worried he'll hurt Johnny

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1706

Warnings: none :)

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by a twitter thread written by 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚊𝚑 • 𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎•

And a prompt from AbyssCat on the Cod Babygirls server

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): And if I hurt you?

“Please, LT…” Johnny looked at Simon in the mirror, the sweetest puppy dog eyes the Brit had ever seen on full display. “Pretty please!”

Simon looked between the trimmer on the counter and his lover before him. His hands are shoved in his hoodie pocket, fingers twitching with frenetic energy. It was always like this when he was on leave. He had kept Ghost and Simon separate, a coping strategy. His hands gave him away, the slightest shake interrupting everything he tried to do. 

When Johnny asked him to help trim his Mohawk Simon’s heart stopped. The all too familiar flutter of anxiety arose in his chest, his fingers trembling just a little more. He couldn’t. There was no way. His hands shook too much. He would hurt his Johnny. 

“Simon, look at me baby,” Johnny turned to face Simon, placing his hands on the Brit’s hips, a gentle, grounding pressure– something Johnny knew always helped his lover settle. The larger man seemed frozen, stone still, barely a rise and fall to his chest as he breathed. “What’s goin’ on? Never seen you freeze up like that– did I do some-”

“No!” Simon interrupted, heart aching at the thought of Johnny blaming himself. “No, that’s not… I just… I don’t wanna hurt you.”

A light laugh left the Scot’s lips, an incredulous look on his face, “Hurt me? Simon…” Johnny reached up, warm, calloused hands cupping Simon’s face, thumbs sliding across strong cheekbones. “You couldnae hurt me. I trust you with my life, including you wieldin’ my trimmer. Try? For me?”

And try Simon did, watching first as Johnny did a couple passes, just to help calm Simon’s trepidation. Simon’s shaky fingers wrapped around the trimmer, taking a deep breath as he attempted his first pass.

The short brunette hair littered the bathroom floor, Johnny watched Simon’s intense focus, supplying him with praise and compliments the entire time. Johnny knew Simon was a different man from Ghost, knew he kept that side of him at arm's length when he was on leave. He had started picking up on the little quirks that came along with that separation but this was something different. Simon seemed so scared of what his hands were capable of, the small tremor accompanies his every move and Johnny knows it frustrates Simon to no end. 

“You’ve got me looking right bonnie, lover,” Johnny turned his head side to side, looking over Simon’s handiwork. Simon stood behind him, eyes trained on one spot of Johnny’s head, fingers lifting to gently brush the freshly trimmed spot. The touch was soft, barely there, a newfound apprehension in Simon’s motions. “What is it, Si?”

“I hurt you…” his voice is barely above a whisper, eyes glued to the spot. Just above Johnny’s ear is the smallest, faintest scratch. His heart hammered in his chest, mind racing. Johnny would snap at him. Yell. Be disappointed. Regret letting Simon so close. 

“Come off it, Si. I didnae feel a thing. You didnae and wouldnae hurt me.” Johnny’s voice was light, only dropping off at the end as he noticed the way Simon seemed lost within himself. 

“There-” Ghost ran his thumb over the nick, just a red angry line, not a single drop of blood. It stood out against his lover’s skin mockingly. He was no better than his father. How could he hurt the man he loved with every ounce of his being? How could he be so vile? “I didn’t mean to…”

Johnny’s heart ached at the way Simon sounded like a small child, so disappointed in his own actions.

“Mo ghràidh, that’s nothing to worry about, happens all the time when I-” Johnny’s attempt to bring Simon back to earth was interrupted by the Brit, clearly beginning to fall into a spiral of doubt and self hate– something not uncommon, something Simon had warned him about when Johnny first asked him out.

“But I-“ Simon was cut off by the Scot, stern but loving tone silencing the Brit. The tone combined with the spiral over-taking his mind left him so easily led by Johnny, mouth snapping shut, eyes locked on Johnny’s. 

“No buts, Simon. You did exactly what I asked,” Johnny reached up, grabbing Simon’s hand and placing a delicate kiss to each finger tip. “And I’m so thankful for you.” Johnny punctuated his sentence with a soft kiss to Simon’s lips, smiling as he felt the tension slowly melt away from his lover.

-----

The two men sat against the rumbling HVAC unit on the roof of Simon’s dingy Manchester apartment building. The late summer sun set slowly across the horizon, streaks of orange and magenta painting indigo sky. Between them sat a bottle of Johnny’s favorite scotch, a lighter, ashtray, and a half-empty pack of Simon’s cigarettes. 

They had taken turns drinking from the bottle, letting the gentle August breeze drift over them. 

Johnny unabashedly let his eyes drink in the sight of his love. He was in rare form tonight, maskless, cigarette lazily hanging from his fingers, lost deep within his mind. Barely any sign of what had caused his lover so much anguish, only streaks of faint pink and silver across pale porcelain skin. It was Johnny’s favorite sight. No sign of Ghost, so cold and authoritative– not that Johnny didn’t also love Ghost. But here, now? He knew what a gift it was to get to see– to know– Simon. Simon, who liked his tea with two sugar cubes. Simon, who would never admit it, but who loved his recruits, would protect them with all he had. Simon, who much preferred bourbon but always kept Johnny’s favorite scotch stocked in his apartment. Simon, who so desperately wanted to love but was so scared of becoming his father. 

It was the kind of calm that Simon hadn’t allowed himself before Johnny. Johnny was a salve to his soul, helped his mind go quiet, just watching the world pass by. It didn’t do anything to stop the shaking of his hands, the tremor only slightly less severe in this moment. 

Simon was lost in thought, only noticing the way Johnny was watching him when the Scot interlaced their fingers. The gentle touch never failed to bring the softest blush to Simon’s skin, rising up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.

“Cannae believe you were scared to hurt me,” Johnny gave his hand a gentle squeeze, voice soft, almost scared to ruin the moment. “You’re my gentle giant, Si.”

“Johnny, you don't know how much violence it took for me to be this gentle… My hands are stained red. Always will be.” Simon’s voice was low as he flicked the ash from his cigarette, taking another deep pull. The dirty feeling never really left, it haunted him, always worried about tainting Johnny, marking him in some way that could never be washed away.

“Aye, that may be true, but it’s not gonna stop me from loving you, not one bit.” Johnny’s thumb brushed against the side of Simon’s pointer finger. Simon had always been apprehensive about being with Johnny, worried in some way that he would ruin him. It always made Johnny laugh; the way Simon never really seemed to understand that Johnny’s hands were stained red too.

“And if I hurt you? Christ Johnny I can’t control the shakes when I’m home. What if I-” In a flash, Johnny was straddling Simon’s hips, hands gently holding either side of the Brit’s face. Simon gave Johnny his full attention, eyes locked on his favorite ocean eyes, cigarette abandoned in the ashtray.

“Now you listen to me, Simon Riley. I trust you with my life. Everyday. No questions asked. I know you’re not gonna hurt me. You have the softest touch I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and I want that for the rest of my life. Even if you don’t trust yourself, I’ll trust you.” Johnny’s gaze was firm but filled with so much love– it made Simon melt. He thanked whatever gods may be out there every day for blessing him with Johnny, for giving him the other half of his soul.

“I’m trying…” Simon’s words were barely a whisper, almost lost amongst the breeze and the thrum of the HVAC; and they split Johnny’s soul down the middle.

Johnny so desperately wanted to freeze time and hunt down every bastard who ever dared touch his Simon. He wanted to do despicable, unholy things to them, leave them as unrecognizable as he could manage. Because in no universe did Simon deserve to despise himself so much. To be so scared of his own two hands. It simultaneously made Johnny’s blood boil and heart break.

“I know, Mo ghràidh, I know…” Johnny let his forehead rest against Simon’s, arms wrapping around the Brit’s shoulder, clinging tightly to him as he tried to hold himself together. “I am so proud of you. Every day. Only hope someday I can help you love and trust yourself as much as I love and trust you.”

Strong, calloused hands found their way to Johnny’s hips, slipping underneath the soft fabric of his worn t-shirt, rubbing soothing circles in the flushed skin. “I don’t know what I’d do without you Johnny…”

“Still be using that god awful 3-in-1 shampoo…” Johnny’s light laugh blended with the deep chuckle of Simon, reverberating through each other’s chest. They settled in silence for a moment before Johnny spoke again. “You’d be fine, just as you were before me…”

“But I wasn’t, Johnny… I’d been a man drowning in a stormy sea when you came along. Broke down every last wall I put up– cheated using those god damn puppy dog eyes too,” Simon pulled his lip between his teeth, worrying at the delicate skin. “I don’t wanna go back to that, Johnny…”

“Never. Never, ever, my love. I’m here and I’m yours. Forever.” Johnny’s eyes sparkled with the last light of day as Simon’s reflected the first rising stars. Sun and moon. Two halves of one whole, lost and incomplete without the other.

Simon slid a hand up along Johnny’s spine, gently guiding the Scot forward until their lips connected. Soft skin and gentle breaths, all soaked with the promise of forever.

[infinite-riches]

In Every Lifetime

Summary: In all their time working together– being together– Soap had only seen Ghost cry a handful of times, mainly after nightmares.

He saw the tears and he knew.

It's just a lot of angst featuring a MCD... I'm sorry? <3

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 673

Warnings: non-graphic depictions of gore, MCD

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by a prompt from adhd_coyote on the CoD babygirls server, much love to her!! <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): In Every Lifetime

Ghost knew pain. It had never been like this before.

A strangled cry into his radio. Pavement still warm from the last light of day. Stars mockingly bright in the night sky. Crimson never meant to be seen outside his veins. A blinding heat and then mind-numbing cold.

He knew. 

The moment it happened, he knew. 

Everything was so loud followed by an almost painful silence when his head hit the asphalt. A wave of nausea hitting as the stars blurred together.

They stayed blurry too long, shaking hand lifting to find wet skin– tears.

In all their time working together– being together– Soap had only seen Ghost cry a handful of times, mainly after nightmares. 

He saw the tears and he knew. 

There was so much screaming all around him and… and fear in Johnny’s voice.

“Johnny?” Ghost’s voice was soft, a barely there whisper as he tried to make the world stop spinning.

“‘M here LT…” Johnny was a blur of motion, ripping into the med kit on Ghost’s vest, desperately pressing gauze into the gaping wound in Ghost’s stomach. Blinding pain lit up every last nerve, an anguished whine slipped from the Brit’s lips.

“Johnny…” somehow his voice was even softer, tear-slicked hands stilling blood-slicked hands. “Lie to me, Johnny… Tell me it’s gonna be okay…”

“It- it is going to be okay, LT. P- Price is calling for exfil now… Nik… Nik will be here soon and… and-”

“Johnny…” his name was like Simon’s last prayer. Johnny could hear the desperation in Simon’s voice now, fear starting to spill out through the cracks in the armor of his ever-strong Lieutenant.

“Simon…” Johnny’s free hand cradled Simon’s face so gently, blood staining the fabric with ease. “Everything… everything’s gonna be okay, Mo ghràidh…”

Simon’s lashes fluttered at the soft pet name, not needing a translation to understand what his Johnny was saying. “The mask… take it off, love…” His eyelids felt heavier now, each blink lasting longer than the last. Johnny saw it, knew there was nothing he could do but ease the pain and fear, so he obliged.

Gentle hands softly bunched up worn fabric, carefully peeling it away to reveal pale skin littered with silver scars. Moonlight over top the buildings made his tears look like stars.

“You’re so beautiful, my love… always so beautiful to me…” The tears fell easily down Johnny’s face, making no move made to hide them or brush them away. 

“Kiss me one last time…?” there was a waver to Simon’s voice and it snapped the last ounce of strength Johnny had– seeing the strongest man he knew be so quickly cut down, made small again.

“Never for the last time… I’ll find you in every lifetime, Simon.” 

Simon’s lips felt cold on Johnny’s. A silent sob racked his body as he kissed his lover, tears melding together on flushed cheeks. 

“I love you, Johnny. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better for you…” his words were broken up by rattling gasps for breaths, Johnny dug his fingers deep into the thick fabric of Simon’s useless vest, trying to hold back his own pain. 

“Shh, shh, shh… none of that, my love. I love you. More than you could ever know.” 

Simon set a shaky hand down atop Johnny’s, “I want you to have my tags… and… and there’s a box in my desk for you Johnny… if you want it…” Simon was gasping for breath now, every minute more was an agonizing fight.

“Just rest, my love…” Johnny pulled his lover into his lap, bloodied hands gently playing with soft blonde strands, listening, waiting for Simon to take his last breath.

One more. Barely audible. It felt like Johnny’s death sentence. 

The real death sentence came when Johnny got back to base. 

Took a week for him to work up the strength to go into Simon’s office. There, tucked in the top drawer, was a simple, forest-green, velvet box.

Johnny wore two sets of tags and one golden ring from that day on.

[infinite-riches]

[infinite-riches]

My Sweet Johnny Boy

Summary: “You’re gonna pull your hair out, mate,” The voice was soft, slightly deep, dripping in a thick Manchester accent.

“So? Everyone hates it anyways…”

Or: Johnny gets bullied and Simon fixes it (High School AU)

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1131

Warnings: mentions of terminal illness, child abuse

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by the ficlet 'What Makes Soap Soap' written by DovaBunny on Ao3!

Shout out to ebi_lal on Ao3 for beta reading this for me! <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): My Sweet Johnny Boy

Trying to adjust to a new school in the middle of the year had been torture. Not to mention the heartbreak of having to leave Scotland behind. All his friends, four hours away. All because his family had to move to Manchester. 

His saving grace had been the phys ed class, being able to dump all his pent-up emotions into football, maybe even with a chance to get scouted for the county team. Football allowed him to tune it out. He could cast everything aside and have a moment of peace in his mind.

As always, the other boys had something smart to say to Johnny after class. Most of the time it was about his accent or his worn-out shoes (the MacTavish family not having enough money to splurge on a new pair when his still wore well). Today though… today was different.

It was relentless in the locker room, most of the other Year 12 boys chiming in with something or another about his hair. 

Though he maintained his composure for the most part he couldn’t deny just how deep it cut. His Ma had been diagnosed with cancer 2 years ago, chemo hitting her hard- she had just recently relented and shaved the rest of her hair off. When Johnny said he wanted to do the same, she helped. She made a game out of it, trying to see how many different funny hairstyles she could give her boy- just to see him laugh and smile. Then she gave him the mohawk and they both stopped.

“So handsome… my sweet Johnny boy with a mohawk!” A light laugh left her lips, a sound Johnny would never let himself forget. 

“Think I’m gonna keep it, Ma…” And he had, learned how to take care of it, always made time to see his Ma- let her trim it up for him, made her smile bright every time he visited her in hospital. 

The water poured over him till it ran cold and even then he didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he sat on the cold tile, knees to his chest as he ran his hands through his hair over and over again, anxiously tugging at the short strands.

The door to the locker room opened and closed, footsteps milling about accompanied by the sound of someone rummaging through their locker. 

Johnny couldn’t be bothered to move, too lost in his own thoughts.

“You’re gonna pull your hair out, mate,” The voice was soft, slightly deep, dripping in a thick Manchester accent.

“So? Everyone hates it anyways…” Johnny bit back another wave of tears, trying to hold himself together.

“I don’t hate it…” The voice is softer now, kind words prompting Johnny to look up, greeted by a stunning set of honey eyes. “I actually think it's pretty fucking dope…”

Simon kneeled before him, a hand outstretched towards the kneeling Scot, the other holding a towel. There was a black medical mask over his face, just like always. The year 13 student had been a bit of an enigma to Johnny. Most of the students called him Ghost, something about how quiet he could be, creeping up on everyone. Simon fit him better in Johnny’s mind– warm, honey eyes, soft blonde hair, the faintest hint of curl to the strands, always slightly tousled, the boy couldn’t possibly be a ghost– maybe an angel instead. 

“You dinnae have to lie-”

“I’m not lying to you…” Simon’s voice faded off, pushing his outstretched hand towards Johnny.

“You must want something then, eh?” Johnny kept himself small, trying to figure out what game– if any– Simon was playing. “Wanna take the piss like the rest of ‘em?”

An abrupt laugh left Simon’s lips. “Be like them? You wound me Scotsman. C’mon mate, get out of the shower, you’re gonna freeze your balls off.” This time Simon stepped over the tile lip, grabbing Johnny and helping him to his feet, gladly handing over the towel if it meant the poor kid would stop shivering. 

Johnny couldn’t shrug off the kindness anymore, caving to the soft hand and gentle eyes before him. After a few minutes, his limbs didn’t feel nearly as numb anymore and he managed to change into his clothes.

“So what’s the deal, with your hair?” Simon was sitting on the opposite end of the bench, fiddling with the straps of his backpack as he listened.

“It’s for my Ma… she’s got cancer… she thought it looked good on me so I’ve kept it… she helps me trim it up every few weeks… even when she’s in hospital…” tears threatened to spill again, desperately clinging to Johnny’s waterline. 

“Fuck mate…” Simon was by his side in a flash. “I’m so sorry man…”

“No need… it’s been this way for a while, dinnae know when she’ll get better…” Johnny’s voice tapered off, lost in thought again.

“I’m sure she’ll get better soon…” Simon paused for a moment, letting the silence hang in the air. “Listen… I’ve seen you around, you’re good at that shit you do in your sketchbook and even better out on the pitch… if those fucks bother you again come find me, yeah?”

“You don’t ha-”

“None of that, I’ll see you around Johnny…” In a flash Simon was gone, living up to his nickname and leaving Johnny reeling. 

The next day Johnny was sitting on one of the benches out front sketching, waiting for school to start when everyone started to speak in hushed tones. His eyes flicked up, pencil dropping on the page as he met Simon’s eyes. His blonde locks were almost completely gone, trimmed into a neat mohawk that closely mirrored Johnny’s save for the slight curl to the strands.

Simon caught his gaze, softly nodding his chin towards the Scot, eyes crinkling as if he was smiling beneath the mask. Simon, being a year 13 had sent a clear message to the rest of the school, leave Johnny alone. 

From then on, Simon was practically Johnny’s shadow. No one gave him shit about his hair or his accent or his shoes anymore. 

Simon watched over Johnny and Johnny brought some much-needed softness into Simon’s life, eventually coaxing the Brit into taking the mask off when they were alone. Broke Johnny’s heart when he saw the scar– Simon’s dad had thrown a bottle at him, leaving behind a deep gash on his cheek– the reason for the mask. 

The boys were inseparable. Over time the distance between them lessened, from opposite ends of the bench to being pressed together, Simon’s lips leaving a soft kiss on Johnny’s.

And Simon was there three weeks later, mohawk freshly trimmed, for Mrs. MacTavish’s funeral, holding Johnny’s hand tight and doing his best to stay strong for his boy. 

[infinite-riches]

TactiCAT

Summary: “LT…” Soap pulled his best puppy-dog eyes as he looked up at Ghost, the tiniest kitten he had ever laid eyes on cupped in his hands. As if perfectly timed, the kitten let out the sweetest meow either man had ever heard. “We cannae leave her here..”

“Johnny…” Ghost gave a defeated sigh, lowering his weapon as he looked at the kitten. She perfectly resembled Johnny. A tiny, fluffy, brown tabby, the fur on her head groomed into a mohawk. “Price will kill us if we take her home…”

Or: The boys find a kitten and fluff ensues

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1791

Warnings: cannon typical violence (no gore)

A/N: This lovely one-shot was inspired by a prompt from a member of the CoD babygirls server, much love to her!! <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): TactiCAT

“Johnny? Sit-rep?” Ghost was in the next room over, downloading any data he could scrape off the security system.

“All cl-” The sound of rustling stopped Soap in his tracks. “Got movement…”

Soap slowly approached, MK14 raised and held tight to his shoulder. His eyes rapidly scanned the dark corner of the room, looking for the cause of the rustling. It wasn’t until there was the soft sound of scratching that he leaned down, lifting a folded newspaper off the ground. 

Soap could hear the featherlight sound of Ghost’s footsteps behind him as the smallest, sweetest pair of blue eyes stared up at him, a tiny squeak filling the silence. Soap slung his rifle over his shoulder, crouching down. He gently held his fingers out, the small fuzzball taking a few steps forward, sniffing his fingers before nuzzling them. With a little persuasion, the kitten climbed into his hand, claws pressing in a little to gain purchase on Soap’s calloused hand. 

“LT…” Soap pulled his best puppy-dog eyes as he looked up at Ghost, the tiniest kitten he had ever laid eyes on cupped in his hands. As if perfectly timed, the kitten let out the sweetest meow either man had ever heard. “We cannae leave her here..”

“Johnny…” Ghost gave a defeated sigh, lowering his weapon as he looked at the kitten. She perfectly resembled Johnny. A tiny, fluffy, brown tabby, the fur on her head groomed into a mohawk. “Price will kill us if we take her home…”

“Okay… and?” It was another moment of Johnny being a total smart-ass. “I’ll hide her in my vest, you can pretend you know nothin’… please, Si?”

“Only because I love you and you’re going to do night patrol with me for the next 2 weeks. Plus you’re solely responsible for her. Understood?” Ghost couldn’t help himself, the two were a perfect pair, matching mohawks and sparkling blue eyes- so much warmth and joy radiating from the pair already.

“Aye, of course! Whatever you want!” Soap placed a gentle kiss on the kitten’s head before speaking to her, “Okay Spike, we’ve gotta get out of here so I’m gonna tuck you in my mag pouch… gonna take good care of you…”

With a gentleness Ghost had only seen used with himself or Soap’s nieces and nephews, Soap tucked the small fuzzball into one of his mag pouches, Spike’s adorable head poking out to take in the view from such great heights. 

The computer from the other room chirped, signaling the drive had finished downloading the data. 

“Time to exfil, Soap. Make sure you keep Spike safe.” 

“Yes, Sir!” Soap called out, a giddy grin on his face as he followed his LT out of the room. 

On the way out of the building, Soap kept close watch on the pouch that Spike was tucked in, a sense of relief flooding his veins every time he heard a small meow or chirp from the kitten. 

They had one long corridor, dotted with doorways, between them and the hike out to exfil when a bullet whizzed past Soap’s ear, nearly nicking his helmet. 

“Get down!” Soap barked, pulling his body back behind the wall, chest heaving. “You got eyes?”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Ghost was leaning around the wall, trying to catch any glimpse of movement he could. Time ticked by achingly slow as both men listened for footsteps and Ghost watched for the slightest misstep. 

“Gonna throw flash, cover my six. We’ll push in hard and fast- can’t be many of ‘em if they aren't already pushing us…”

“Aye, on you, LT…” Soap gave a firm nod, hand dropping for only a second to gently push Spike down into the pouch, securing the velcro closure over her head. “Gonna get you out of here, lass…”

It was a flurry of light, sound, and motion down the hallway. But then, one shot, two shots, and a third. Ghost’s M4 didn’t make a dent in the Russian armor. They took cover, pinned down by a swarm of lead. 

“You’re up,” Ghost said. Soap nodded.  Soap and Spike swung around the corner, MK14 leveled. One shot, two shots, and a third. Then… silence. 

“7.62 black tip doesn’t fuck around, Si.”

“Solid?” Ghost cast his glance back at Johnny, doing a quick visual check on his partner. 

“All good, LT. You broken?” Soap is all teeth as he looks over his Ghost, hand absentmindedly petting at Spike through the gap in the pouch. 

“I’m solid, let’s get the hell out of here so we can get this drive to Price.”

It was an arduous hike but not the worst by far. The last strength of summer meant the air was warm but not suffocating, a gentle breeze pushing through the pines as they picked their way out of the valley. 

The sound of the chopper blades seemed to upset Spike, soft mewls of protest sounding from Soap’s vest.

“You’re on your own, Johnny…” Ghost warned as they pushed into the clearing, Price visible in the helo.

“Shh, shh, shh, Spike… if you’re quiet I’ll give you one of the LT’s hoodies to sleep in… you won’t believe how soft it is…” By some stroke of luck, the kitten seemed to be pleased with the trade offer, instantly settling down as they approached Price.

“It’s all yours, Captain,” Ghost called out, handing the drive over and settling in for the flight back to base.

“You boys broken?” Price tucked the drive away as Soap climbed aboard, Nik lifting the helo off the ground moments later.

“We’re all good, Sir. Just another day at the office…” Soap settled next to Ghost, trying his best to fight the sleep tugging at his eyelids.

20 minutes into the flight, as Soap leaned on Ghost deep in sleep, Soap’s mag pouch began to move. Neither Price nor Ghost noticed till the small kitten had popped its head out of the pouch, nuzzling into Soap’s chest before also falling asleep, a gentle thrum of purrs pouring from her chest.

Price gave Ghost a pointed look but the younger Brit simply shrugged and gave a look along the lines of “I have no clue, but we are talking about Johnny.”

The matching mohawk and blue eyes seemed to help Johnny and Spike out in the end, Price caving and outlining very clear rules about keeping a cat with the task force. 

She quickly became the favorite member of the task force.

Gaz found a blank patch in supply, using a quick rough stitch to emblazon ‘TactiCAT’ on the black patch with white thread. He stitched it into Spike’s favorite cushion, one they had saved from an old office chair being discarded. 

In the mornings, Spike accompanied Ghost to the gym, alternating between sitting on the stack of weight plates or screaming until Ghost turned the treadmill on to the lowest setting so she could go for a walk. Every afternoon you could reliably find the small ball of fuzz curled up in the oversized cushion placed in the 141 rec room, right in the patch of sun filtering in from the window. Sometimes, she would exchange her patch of sunlight for the warm space next to Gaz when he and Soap had a moment to spare on video games. Each night, Spike wandered to Soap’s room, curled up in one of Simon’s hoodies at the foot of the bed. Some nights, when Price worked especially late, Spike would wander to his office, welcoming herself into his lap as he worked into the early hours of the morning- they had only been caught a few times but it was enough for Soap to get a photo and place it on the fridge in the rec. 

Spike had settled into a steady routine, loved by every member of the team, and as much as she loved all of the men there was a certain pair she favored. 

It was late at night, Johnny propped up in bed, Spike lying across his legs as he sketched. The small kitten nuzzled into his shin, perking up as Simon quietly slipped into the room, tossing his mask onto Johnny’s desk. A small chirp escaped from the fuzzball, prompting a chin scratch from the Brit.

“Good evening to you too, Spike…” The sweet moment made Johnny’s heart sing as Simon leaned over to kiss his forehead. 

“Long day, lover?” Johnny asked, setting his pencil between the pages and closing the sketchbook. He knew Simon had been holed up in the conference room with Price and Laswell, some important video conference eating away at the day. 

“The worst kind…” Simon grumbled, perching on the edge of the bed to unlace his boots. His hoodie followed next, tossed to the foot of the bed for Spike. He swept the other hoodie, now thoroughly covered in cat hair, off the bed, and into the laundry bin. Shirt and jeans quickly followed the old hoodie before Simon all but collapsed onto the unoccupied portion of the bed. Head in his arms, he looked up at Johnny, chuckling as he felt the familiar feeling of Spike’s paws on his back- kneading the tense muscle. 

Simon looks completely blissed out as Johnny tangled his fingers in the soft blonde locks, fingers massaging the Brit’s scalp. “You gonna fall asleep like this? Ya big softie…” 

“Couldn’t possibly… you haven’t even kissed me good night… incredibly cruel, don’t you agree Spike?” A determined meow rang out from the kitten, leaving Johnny slightly stunned as he laughed. 

“Alright, alright… let's get ready for bed, and then I’ll kiss ya all ya want…” Spike only softly protested as she was removed from the warm perch that was Simon’s back, settling as she snuggled up in the still-warm hoodie.

Eventually, the boys were back in bed, only the soft glow of the lamp illuminating the space. Just as Johnny leaned over to kiss Simon, Spike appeared, wedging herself between the chests of the two men. 

“Lass… you’ll get your turn…” Johnny scolded, leaning over again to kiss Simon, soft and full of love– something Simon had been craving all day. Once Johnny and Simon were well supplied with good night kisses, Simon opened his arms, Johnny and Spike both moving at once. 

Spike was faster, happily nuzzling into Simon’s chest. “Sorry love, she beat ya’ to it…” Simon scooped the small fuzzball up, turning over so his back was to Johnny’s chest, Spike still snuggled against him. 

“Aye, she did… it's alright though, like gettin’ to hold you like this, love…” Johnny shifted close to Simon, an arm thrown across his stomach. “Sleep well my little loves. Love you, Si.”

“Love you, Johnny…” Simon whispered, leaning over to turn the light off. 

[infinite-riches]

Bright Lights & Dark Spaces

Summary: “Bad morning?” Price’s motions closely mirror those of Ghost’s from mere moments before, not phased by the Brit’s harsh attitude this morning.

“From the moment I opened my eyes…” Ghost mumbles, lifting the fabric of his mask to take a sip of his favorite blend.

Or: Ghost has a headache and Soap knows just how to help.

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley

Word Count: 1297

Warnings: none :)

A/N: So I may or may not be dabbling with the idea of turning this into something more...? Thoughts?

This lovely one-shot was inspired by this prompt from a member of the CoD babygirls server, much love to them!! <3

And as always feel free to leave feedback/constructive criticism <3

AO3 Link (if you prefer): Bright Lights & Dark Spaces

The sharp ray of light slipping beneath the bottom of the blinds was enough to signal to Ghost that it would be one of those days. The otherwise silent room was only filled with a soft huff and his bare feet making contact with the cold tile floor. No need to turn any light on, the offending ray of light being more than enough to illuminate the small space in a dim yellow glow. 

Hands immediately reached for the well-used and loved pot of eyeblack, muscle memory taking over. Black cream smeared against pale skin, a familiar feeling and borderline necessary practice these days. Just for good measure, a few painkillers are tossed back, knowing today won’t be easy. 

The worn balaclava is next, pulled securely over his head, hiding pale skin and soft blonde locks. Gentle pressure from the fabric eases the discomfort slightly but it's no use against the headache already blooming behind his eyes. 

With a frustrated grumble instincts take over, clothes and gear slipping into place mechanically, as had been ingrained in him so long ago. The last movement before the door is to grab the deep red sunglasses that had become one of the most important pieces of his kit. 

Opening the door allows the offending fluorescent light to spill into his private quarters, immediately eliciting a grimace from the large Brit. The glasses slip easily over his eyes and mask making the light slightly more tolerable. 

He trudges through the halls, irritation rolling off him in waves, rookies practically jumping aside as he makes a beeline for the 141 rec room. He can’t help but be grateful when he takes note that the small, private space is empty, immediately flicking one of the light switches off so the room is half as obnoxiously bright. 

His attention is now fully focused on the well-used and abused electric kettle. With precise motions the kettle is filled and set to boil as Ghost grabs his much-loved mug from the cabinet, followed by a bag of his favorite tea and two anticipatory sugar cubes. The beeping of the kettle rings sharp before he quickly snatches the handle and fills the mug, leaving the rest of the hot water for whichever of his teammates appears later.

The door to the room is pushed open, Ghost’s head snapping to the sound, eyes locked on the hand hovering above the light switch. 

“Price… don’t,” it's a firm warning with no malice behind it, Price nodding quickly in understanding. 

“Bad morning?” Price’s motions closely mirror those of Ghost’s from mere moments before, not phased by the Brit’s harsh attitude this morning. 

“From the moment I opened my eyes…” Ghost mumbles, lifting the fabric of his mask to take a sip of his favorite blend. 

“Well the good news is that I haven’t received a call from Laswell about that intel, means you should be able to hole up in your office if need be…” the older man gives the younger a sympathetic nod, having been aware of the light sensitivity and subsequent headaches for a while now. 

“Morning boys- interruptin’ something?” Soap teasingly wagged his eyebrows at the two older men. “Should I leave? Maybe put a sock on the door?” A light laugh left his lips as he flicked the other switch on. Ghost grimaced again, grip tightening on his mug ever so slightly. 

“M’ gonna go work on those reports, Captain,” Ghost pushed himself off the counter he was leaning against, giving both Price and Soap nods before he was out the door.

-----

The day passed agonizingly slow, headache persisting no matter his efforts. Blinds closed tight, shade pulled over the glass panel on the door, nothing but the small desk lamp on to illuminate the space. He had even opted to print the reports and notate them by hand to avoid the glaring computer screen, much to no avail. The soft knock on the door shook him from his thoughts, a confused look crossing his face.

“LT?” A brief pause from the Scot. “It’s me…” A grunt from Ghost was all the signal Soap needed to quickly slip inside and shut the door. He stood, opposite from Ghost, planted on the other side of the desk.

“I uhh…” Soap sheepishly shrugged. “Brought a few things that I thought might help…” He gently set the small collection of things down on his superior’s desk, including a fresh mug of his favorite tea. “Don’t know what exactly’s goin’ on but thought some of this might be worth a shot…” 

The front of the desk was now covered in a small smattering of things Soap thought might help with his LT’s headache– painkillers, bottle of water, hot and cold compresses– it was obvious Soap had more of a hunch than he was letting on.

“Soap…” Ghost’s voice was soft as he looked expectantly to the Scot for an explanation.

“Ma sister, she had migraines when we were growin’ up… looked like you did in the rec this mornin’…” 

“And you…?” Ghost’s eyes scanned over the things Soap had brought, not ungrateful for the gesture but slightly frustrated at the sight of methods already well tested.

“Got damn good at takin’ care of her… always preferred me massagin’ her scalp though..” Soap chuckled at the memory, a slight blush overtaking his cheeks as he realized the slight overshare. Ghost however seemed more intrigued than not, bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he thought.

“Guess I best be leavin’ you, know that my yappin’ might not-” Soap stopped, already having taken a step towards the door.

“Johnny…” Ghost took a slow breath, steeling his nerves, preparing to cross a line neither of them ever had before. “Would you… would you be willing to try?”

Soap looked the older man over, eyes clearly showing desperation and fatigue, sunglasses discarded long ago. “You sure, LT?”

All it took was a single nod from Ghost for Soap to be behind the man, watching as Ghost slowly lifted the mask up and off his head, blonde locks spilling out, a warm honey color in the dim light. Neither man could ignore the way their hearts fluttered, the soft intimacy of the moment overwhelming but the start of something each had dreamt about for ages. 

Soap gently slid his fingers along the top of Ghost’s head, soft curls brushing against his skin. Using small circular strokes and medium pressure the Scot worked his way across the other man’s scalp, smiling with pride as he watched the tension in Ghost’s shoulders slowly dissipate. 

A soft moan escaped Ghost, so quiet Soap almost missed it, but Ghost was immediately adjusting himself in the chair, posturing a bit to hide his embarrassment. Eventually, Ghost had all but melted into the chair, eyes shut, breathing slow and steady.

“Still alive down there, LT?” there was a light laugh to Soap’s words as he noticed Ghost stir, almost as if he had been about to fall asleep.

“I…” Ghost paused, mulling over his words for a moment, choosing to hold back what he really wanted to say. “Thank you…”

“No need to mention it, LT– you’ve saved my ass more times than I can count, the least I can do to pay you back…” Soap had taken a small step to the side, eyes scanning the rare sight of his Lieutenant's bare face.

Ghost quickly reached out, hand coming to rest on Soap’s hip, eyes tracing up his form till beautiful pools of blue were staring back at him. “I can’t thank you enough, Johnny… best I’ve felt in a while…”

“Course handsome…” Soap said with a wink, leaning down to place a flirty kiss on Ghost’s cheek before he moved to the door. “Couldnae ever say no to you…”